The Ends of the Earth
by SilverStar24
Summary: Ch 21 up! “Granger,” he said softly, his voice fading. What?” she snapped. “I know where to find one of the Horcruxes.” He saw the shocked look on her face for a fleeting second before he collapsed to the ground, unconscious. Post HBP. DMHG.
1. An Unexpected Guest

000

_Florence, Italy_

_Late June, 1991_

_Night_

Rain drove downward through the darkness in vast, angry torrents. By the edge of the sea, the windows of a small house glowed with soft, golden light. A lone figure drew closer to the house, his long violet cloak flapping in the relentless wind as he strode down the garden path.

The door burst open as soon as he reached it. An older woman stood framed in the doorway, the golden light of the house illuminating her aged face. She stared at the purple clad figure outside in indulgent concern.

"Albus," she cried almost scoldingly. "My goodness, what are you doing out in this weather?"

"Out to clear my head, dear lady," he responded, smiling.

"Come in, come in," she said, waving her hand frantically and ushering him inside. He thanked her politely and swiftly entered. The old woman took his cloak, which was miraculously dry despite the abysmal weather. So was the rest of him.

"I trust Nicolas is in his study?" said Dumbledore quickly.

"Yes, as always," she replied.

"Ah," said Dumbledore. "Forgive my brusqueness, but there is an urgent matter we must all discuss."

000

Nicolas Flamel let out a slow breath. The room resonated with the silence left by the end of Dumbledore's story. Flamel set his tea cup back on his saucer with a delicate clink. For a long time, no one spoke.

"You do not believe the Stone is safe at Hogwarts?" Flamel asked finally.

"No, Nicolas," sighed Albus. "Forgive me…if things had gone any farther tonight…perhaps the Stone could be moved again…"

"No, no, Albus." Flamel stood up and began to pace the room. "If the Stone is not safe at Hogwarts, it is not safe anywhere." He sat heavily on the couch, next to his wife.

"That means…" Albus began softly.

"We are both well aware of what that means," said Flamel. He and his wife locked eyes. They were widened in surprise, but at the same time, understanding. "This is not the first time we have had this discussion." They were silent for a moment, then…

"The Stone will have to be destroyed," said his wife, her voice was cracked and worn, but heavy with resolve. She grasped her husband's withered hands reassuringly.

The Philosopher's Stone sat in the middle of the table, glistening and red, swaddled in a nest of white fabric.

"We have enough potion to settle our affairs," said Flamel.

"And then…" Flamel's wife closed her eyes and gently rested her head on her husband's shoulder. "We have lived for a long time, Albus. Our time has passed."

"I am placing the Stone in your care," said Dumbledore. "Nicolas, I…"

"It will be destroyed tonight," said Flamel firmly.

Flamel's wife rose from her spot on the couch. "I will get the proper supplies," she said, exiting swiftly to another part of the house. Albus and Flamel were alone in the room. Flamel folded his hands and pressed them to his lips, deep in thought.

"Albus," he said, after a pregnant pause. "A man as old as I keeps…many secrets." Albus stared intently at him. The reflection of the shimmering flames in the stone fireplace danced and flickered on the surface of his golden spectacles. "Many secrets of great danger, and…power. When I am gone, will you assume my confidences?" Flamel sighed heavily.

"These secrets, like all knowledge—come at a price. Still—there's no one I would trust more for such a task."

"Nicolas, I would be honored," said Dumbledore.

000

_Early July, 1996_

_Night_

Draco Malfoy gasped, choking as he struggled to draw each agonizing breath. He whipped his head around, his gaze sweeping furiously over the darkened landscape around him. His clothes were ripped and he was filthier than he had ever been in his sheltered life. Blood trickled out of the gash on his forehead, flowing down the side of his face in a delicate stream and soaking into his shirt collar.

His pale skin reflected the faint light of the waning moon, creating a bright contrast against his black robes. His school robes. Hogwarts. Dumbledore. It had only been a few days, but it seemed so long ago now. Another lifetime where he was whole and so arrogantly certain of his glorious future.

He ran as fast as he could. He had Apparated here, deep within the woods, but he could hear the sharp cracks that indicated he was already being followed.

"Malfoy!" growled a distant voice. He tripped over a tree root as he whirled around and raced off in the opposite direction. He fell hard, his palms scraping into the dirt. He scrambled to his feet, cursing wildly.

"Draco," snarled a cold voice. Malfoy recognized the voice of his former Professor immediately, his stomach clenching in fear. "Come back here!" Draco ignored the cold command. He continued running. Each breath felt like fire in his lungs.

He couldn't run forever, He had to get out of here soon, Disapperate to somewhere safe. Someone who would help him—but who? He realized with a pang that he had absolutely no one to turn to. His "friends"—he snorted in disgust—were so far out their depth in this situation it was pathetic. His father was gone. Hogwarts was out of the question. And his mother…tears stung in his eyes as he tore through the underbrush, flailing his arms in hysterical circles to prevent the gnarled branches from raking across his face. It wasn't doing much good.

He fell to the blackened earth again, his shoulder slamming onto a dead log. He flipped over on the ground, pain shooting up his arm. His wand skittered away across the forest floor. A fiery ache was humming in his legs. He wasn't sure he could stand again if he wanted to.

He felt a thrill of fear as he heard a branch snap behind him. Time was up. A shadowy figure towered above him, the voice unfamiliar, but horrible.

"The Malfoy brat!" howled the voice. "He's here! I've found him!"

With one last burst of manic energy, he stretched his arm forward and snatched up his wand. He scooped it into his hand, his fingernails biting into the moist dirt as he pulled it frantically towards himself.

He raised his wand above his head.

"He's here! He's here!"

He needed to go somewhere. Anywhere. Somewhere safe. There had to be someone out there who would help him.

Apperating without a sure destination was an act of complete idiocy, pure and simple. He knew this and yet when he clenched his burning eyes shut for a final time, he still had no idea where he would end up.

He slammed his wand down in front of him in a swishing arc.

_Somewhere safe. Someone who will help me. Anyone. _

And with that, Draco Malfoy disappeared.

000

Hermione Granger awoke with a start. She was obviously having a dream, though she couldn't properly remember what it was about. The glowing red face of her alarm clock burned the numbers 2:31 into the darkness. She slid out of her bed and padded her way across the silent room pausing at the window and gazing into the starry sky.

Ridiculous as it sounded, she was fairly sure it was something that involved running around in the woods. Why she would dream about running in the woods, she had no idea. Professor Trelawney would probably tell her that her dream was deeply symbolic of her imminent demise. Actually, she had read _Unfogging the Future_ cover to cover, waste of time that it was. Trees were symbolic of nature, the renewal of spirit, and the beginning of a new journey. Darkness on the other hand, symbolized the feminine aspect of the metaphysical virginal state of all things, before they are illuminated by the male presence, symbolized by light. Hermione snorted indignantly. Light. Hah. That was quite ironic, considering how dim most men were.

Then again, dreams were just dreams. According to the books in her father's study—dreams were simply the random firing of neurons cells, as interpreted by the more primitive aspects of the brain. Despite everything she had seen and experienced since a large tawny owl had dropped her Hogwarts letter in her breakfast cereal six years ago, she was still more inclined to believe that her dreams were scientific rather than symbolic.

Hermione smoothed down her bushy brown hair and sighed. Sometimes she wished her brain would just shut up, so she get a decent night's sleep. The door to her room creaked open slightly, and a squash-faced ginger cat pranced in.

"Hello, Crookshanks," she cooed softly. She opened her arms and the cat leapt into them, purring contently. She stroked his head and continued to stare out the window. She was in her parent's home—her home to be accurate, but it hardly felt like it as of late. She returned alone to spend a few days with her family. Harry was staying with Ron at the Burrow. Soon, very soon, they would leave and go to the Dursley's together and after that...she wasn't sure.

Hermione had been charged with the difficult task of explaining to her parents why she was leaving, and where she was going. They had not taken it was well as she hoped, but it was to be expected. She had debated over whether or not to tell them the truth—but had decided to be honest. She couldn't bear the thought of the last thing she ever said to them being a lie.

She wiped her eyes and silently scolded herself for being so melodramatic. Crookshanks meowed at her.

"I have cat hair in my eye," she snapped defensively, but Crookshanks continued to meow. He clawed at the window. Hermione finished wiping her eye and bent forward, pressing her fingertips against the glass. "What is it?" she asked worriedly, her eyes searching the backyard. Crookshanks hissed and backed away from the window, hackles raised.

She spotted a dark shape stumbling around beneath the tree next to her back porch. It was coming closer to the house. She saw a flash of silver, the billow of black wizard's robes. No. Not here. Not her parents. Seizing her wand from her bedside table, she threw a pair of work robes over her bedclothes and raced downstairs, her heart pounding.

000

Draco stumbled, lost in unfamiliar surroundings. He attempted to steady himself on the trunk of a large tree. At least he hadn't splinched himself.

The scene in front of him swam before his eyes. He toppled face first onto the ground, his shaking legs finally giving out below him.

000

Hermione wasn't sure what was going on. She was crouched down, peering out carefully through her living room window at the figure in her backyard. Figure. Singular. There was only one person in her back yard. In her experience, Death Eaters usually came in groups.

Quite suddenly, the person simply dropped, collapsing heavily to the ground. She bit her lip uncertainly. The robes obviously gave the person away as a wizard. So there was someone _magical_ passed out in her yard. She squinted. Something dark and was trickling out onto the grass in front of the prone figure, glistening in the moonlight. She gasped. Blood!

Her mind raced. Someone was hurt—badly. Maybe they had been attacked by Death Eaters. They needed help. Maybe they had information. The sooner they were inside, the better—leaving them out in the open would be more dangerous. The sight of blood had brought her to her feet. Throwing caution to the wind, she raced outside.

000

Draco raised his head slightly and forced his eyes open. The curses were quickly taking their toll on him. His hand was wet. He looked at it and recoiled—it was drenched in his own blood.

Someone was racing towards him, wand raised, robes flowing behind them. The figure halted before him, and stopped in shock. He was roughly kicked over, wand now pointed at his throat.

A pair of narrowed brown eyes were glaring down on him. Malfoy looked up in disbelief.

"Granger?" he whispered hoarsely. Perfect. Just perfect. He ended up on the Mudblood's front lawn, drenched in dirt and his own blood.

"Give me one good reason I shouldn't curse you right here," she said fiercely, her eyes blazing.

000

Hermione had her wand aimed at the throat of what seemed to be Draco Malfoy—but she had never, never seen Draco Malfoy like this before. His usually immaculate robes were torn and wrinkled, his silvery blond hair was disheveled, and his lily-white skin was caked in blood and dirt. He was staring at her with wide, almost frightened eyes.

"I didn't mean to come here," he choked. "I was running. They—they—" He coughed, gasping for breath. Hermione noticed a thin line of blood leaking out the corner of his mouth. She didn't know what to do. She felt frozen, her wand still aimed at his throat. She wished Harry and Ron were with her, but deep down she knew that they would probably tell her to leave him outside.

"Tell me the truth!" she said, trying to sound as callous as possible. "What the hell are you doing here? What happened to you?" She couldn't help but feel a great swell of pity, seeing him in this state. She tried to steel herself and ignored it.

"I told you, Mudblood," he rasped, anger creeping into his pale face. "I don't…want to be…here. It was…an accident. And…it's none of…your…goddamn…business."

Hermione flushed, furious. She had forgotten herself. Even though he was barely able to speak, he still insisted on insulting her. He would probably continue to insult her, even with his dying breath. This was Draco Malfoy, after all. The most evil, arrogant little bastard ever, and he could fuck off and die for all she cared. He tried to kill Ron. Katie. _Dumbledore_. She turned away and stomped back towards the house, leaving him alone and bleeding in the grass.

000

Draco watched her walk away in horror. What the hell was wrong with him? He was going to die, right here on the Mudblood's lawn if she didn't help him right now. Who cares that she's scum? She could be a Blast-Ended Skrewt for all he cared—he just needed someone, _anyone_ to get him inside.

"Granger!" he groaned. "Wait! H—help me."

"Why should I?" she said harshly, turning and glaring at him over her shoulder.

Malfoy opened and closed his mouth hopelessly, but no sound came out. What could he say? This was Granger. Granger, and by association—Potter. She huffed in disgust and stalked away towards the house.

"Granger," he said softly, his voice fading. He struggled upwards, propping himself up on his battered elbows. "Wait. I—I—" He struggled to get the words out, darkness was closing in at the edges of his vision. She turned around.

"What?" she snapped.

"I know where to find one of the…Horcruxes."

He saw the shocked look on her face for a fleeting second, before he collapsed to the ground, unconscious.

000

**AN:** Well, what do you guys think? Should I bother to keep this going? I need lots of feedback, or I will be too overwhelmed with apathy and discouragement to continue.

Ah, I love Draco/Hermione. I don't care if it will never be canon.

flight


	2. Mudbloods and Memories

**AN:** Wow! Thank you for all the feedback! Here's the next chapter…

Oh yeah, and here's my lovely **disclaimer**: I do not own Harry Potter.

…Or maybe I'm secretly JKR in disguise, covertly spreading the awesomeness of DM/HG fics. Woot. No, scratch that, I'm just me.

000

"Honey?"

Mrs. Granger stood at the bottom of the stairs, clasping the railing. Her honey-brown eyes were full of concern. Hermione looked up at her mother. The woman had tolerated a great deal of strangeness over the years, but this was the first time she had ever watched her daughter drag an unconscious teenage boy into their house.

Hermione was standing in the doorway, a pale figure in black robes draped over her shoulder. She struggled to support his weight.

Her mother caught sight of Draco's pale, bloodstained face and gasped.

"Oh, my goodness," she said, rushing forward. "Who—what happened—oh my—is—is he all right?" She and Hermione hauled his prone body towards the couch.

"I don't think so, Mum," said Hermione, grunting with exertion. "Here, this is silly—I keep forgetting—home, in the summer—" She pulled out her wand and flicked it. Draco floated upwards, as if on an invisible stretcher, and landed gently on the couch. At that moment, Mr. Granger raced down the stairs and skidded to a halt in the living room.

"What are you two doing up?" he asked, panting. "Is something wrong? I thought I heard—why didn't you wake me? I—" His eyes widened as they fell on Draco. "Who is that?" he demanded in surprise.

"He…" Hermione paused. That was a very good question. "He goes to my school," she said finally, which reminded her of something. She darted forward and yanked the wand out of his dirt encrusted fingers, tucking it safely in her own pocket.

Her parents stared at her silently, waiting for an explanation. They were always waiting patiently for an explanation, and usually she gave one. But tonight…

"He needs help," she said, after a pause. That much was true, at least.

"Shall I take him to the hospital?" asked Mr. Granger. "I can call Dr. Bartz, I'm sure he'd be willing to—"

"No," said Hermione, shaking her head. "No hospitals. They won't be able to help him."

If her parents thought this was odd, they said nothing. Hermione sighed.

"Mum, could you get me some hot water and a washcloth?" Her mother nodded and silently left the room. She turned to her father, but her eyes lingered on Draco, who still lay motionless at the fringes of her peripheral vision. She couldn't help but feeling a deep sense of unease.

"Dad, watch him. If he even moves—yell for me. I'll be right back." She raced upstairs, rooting frantically through her trunk for—what else?—a book. Or two. Or four. And some potions ingredients. She tossed Draco's wand into her trunk and slammed it shut, before hurtling back downstairs.

000

Draco groaned slightly and attempted to move. A pair of gentle hands eased him into a sitting position. Someone pressed some kind of hot liquid into his lips. He swallowed instinctively, liking his dry lips. Potion? It was thin and kind of salty.

He opened his eyes and the face of his caretaker swam into view. For a moment he thought it was Hermione, but the face was different, older, with darker hair and lighter, hazel colored eyes. The Muggle woman was touching him. A Malfoy.

His eyes moved to the steaming mug in her hands and he recoiled slightly. Mrs. Granger obviously could tell if he was cringing in fear or disgust, because she smiled gently at him. Just what the hell was she feeding him? Some kind of Muggle filth obviously. Had he really sunk this low?

"Chicken soup," said Mrs. Granger warmly, answering at least one of his silent questions. "My mum used to make it for me when I was sick. Do you feel up to eating now?"

This situation was so incredibly alien to Draco that he practically gaped at her, lost for words. "I—" he stammered. He swallowed hard. "Where's Gra—er—Hermione?"

"She's upstairs," said Mrs. Granger. "She'll be right down. My husband had to go to work, but I thought I'd stay here and make sure you're all right." She smiled at him, as if they were making small talk. "We own a practice together, you see."

Draco stared at her. "Mmm…" he muttered vaguely. He took in his surroundings. The house was much, much larger than he expected, and rather richly decorated with various Muggle objects. What did her parents do for a living? He was fairly sure he had heard her mention teeth; Granger's huge molars had amused him endlessly for his first four years in school. Apparently "dentimestry" or whatever the hell it was is a very lucrative career.

"Would you like some more soup?" She offered him the steaming mug. Draco looked at it. It was a very rare occasion that he ate something that had not been prepared by house elves. The thought of the dirty veined Muggle woman feeding him something that she had prepared with her bare, filthy hands was absolutely repulsive to him. Still…he was absolutely starving, and he doubted Hermione would be quite as generous in the distribution of food when she came back downstairs.

He stared at the cup for a long time. "Yes," he said finally. He pulled the broth out of her hands and chugged it down. His mother would be repulsed by his manners, but then again, his mother would also be repulsed that he was interacting with a Muggle with borderline civility.

"_Petrificus Totalus_!" cried a voice from the corner of the room, near the stairs. The now empty mug flew out of his hands as his limbs snapped into a rigidly shut. Hermione stomped over to him, wand raised, looking furious again. For a moment, he had the wild notion that she was going to kick him in the nose, but she didn't. She rounded at her mother.

"Mum!" she scolded. "You were supposed to tell me the second he regained consciousness!" Malfoy could see her out of the corner of his eyes, if he rolled them to the very edge of his paralyzed lids. Her hair was dripping wet and clipped back behind her head. She was wearing a jeans and a tank top. Muggle clothes. How disgusting.

"He's obviously not well, dear…" Hermione's mother protested. Casting another disapproving look at Draco, Hermione pulled her mother aside and conversed with her in hushed tones. Draco caught snatches of words…"bad people" … "dangerous" … "father" … "prison." Mrs. Granger's eyes widened in concern, and perhaps, fear. Good. Hah. Stupid woman. Oh, if his father could see him now…

Something was crawling across his chest. He rolled his eyes downwards and watched as the Mudblood's ugly ginger cat crept up and stared him in the face with its lamp-like yellow eyes. His entire chest was covered in bandages, his shirt and robes now conspicuously missing. Each furry pawed step sent pain lancing across his body. Hermione was still talking to her mother, who was now casting worried looks in his direction. The cat hissed at him, eyes narrowing. Draco was beginning to hate this cat on a personal level, even more than he already hated it for simply being the properly of Hermione Granger, Mudblooded suck-up-know-it-all extraordinaire. If he could have moved, he would take his wand and blow the cat to tiny pieces. He smiled inwardly at the vision of little tufts of ginger hair floating wildly about the room…

"Malfoy," said Hermione sharply, snapping him back to reality. Mrs. Granger had left the room and the Mudblood was once again towering above him, wand aimed at his throat. The stupid cat jumped heavily off his chest and landed on the table next to Hermione's leg.

"I'm going to unbind you now, and if you try anything—you're going to spend the rest of your natural life as a ferret —or possibly a tea cozy." The cat purred in apparent delight at the prospect of him becoming a tiny, furry animal. "Got it?"

Being completely paralyzed, he could not give any indication of whether or not he agreed to these terms. After a moment's pause, she released him anyway. He felt an immediate rush of relief as his limbs relaxed. He did not however, feel relieved that her wand was pressing against his temple.

"You said you knew where to find a Horcrux," she demanded, her voice was shaking slightly. She had clearly been waiting a long time to ask this question.

Draco frowned. "I…" He trailed off. His memories of last night were fuzzy, at best.

She scowled. "Don't screw with me, you ponce. How do you know about the Horcruxes?"

"Horcruxes are nasty things, Granger," he said, a playful edge in his voice. "I wouldn't go chasing after them."

There was color rising in her cheeks. She opened her mouth and began to utter a spell. "_Sentatr_—"

"OK!" he interrupted loudly, throwing his hands up defensively. Clearly he was not going to be bartering with the very little information he had. "I don't know much. I—last night I think I stumbled onto something I should have…I don't know. They tried to modify my memory, but they couldn't do it properly because I took off…still, I'm not sure I remember anyway…"

He stopped again, his brow furrowed in concentration. He remembered running…He had been hit with a curse, several in fact—all of them rather nasty and at least one of them was definitely a memory charm. He remembered there was something important, he just couldn't place it. It was a shadow, lingering on the fringes of awareness, taunting him. Horcrux? That sounded familiar. His father had told him about Horcruxes of course, showed him the diary…but that was long gone now. Why did it matter?

He was quite lost in his own thoughts. He barely noticed that the Mudblood looked ready to burst.

"HORCRUXES!" she shouted, shocking him out of his reverie. "What. Do. You. Know," she demanded through gritted teeth.

"Huh?" Draco looked up at her. "Oh, that." He smirked at her, the precious feeling of vague superiority creeping back to him for the first time in awhile. "I skimmed it off the top of your mind." He tapped his skull. "Legilimancy. Didn't much fancy spending the night outside on your lawn."

His grin widened as her eyes bulged in fury. He was quite pleased with himself for this. He wasn't much of a hand at Legilimency, particularly when he was about ready to pass out. He was far more fortunate with Occlumency.

000

Hermione fumed. She couldn't believe the gall of him—she had taken him into her house, saved his bloody life—and he was still behaving like…well, like the great arrogant git that he was and had always been. She sighed. At least he hadn't called her "Mudblood" in awhile. _Why_ was she helping him?

Malfoy, meanwhile, crossed his arms and stared at her sullenly.

"Where's my wand?" he asked.

She glared at him incredulously.

"Are you kidding me?" She could have laughed, it was so ridiculous. "My family lives here. You're lucky you aren't tied up. You would be if it wasn't for your stupid wounds."

"I don't _want_ to be here," he snapped stubbornly, glowering at her. "Living in this filthy hovel you call a home…Mudblood." Well, so much for that.

She stood up, raising her chin haughtily. "I suppose you'd rather be dead on the back lawn?" she huffed. "You might as well be I you don't have any useful information," she added, clutching her wand and drawing herself up to her full height. "You don't know anything."

"I do," he protested. "I just don't remember what it is," he added, mumbling.

"What do you remember?" she asked crossly.

"Why would I tell _you_?"

She leaned into his face, a very saccharine smile on her lips. The tip of her wand occupied the very short distance separating their noses. "I can think of one very good reason, and it involves a lifetime supply of rodent pellets," she said sweetly.

"Ah."

000

"What else?"

Granger was pacing wildly about the room, her frustration quite evident, and from Draco's perspective, quite entertaining.

"I told you," he snapped. "That's all."

"You found something…you were attacked…and you ran away?" she recounted scathingly. "That's ALL you remember."

"Yeah," said Draco shrugging. Granger slumped down in defeat in an armchair across the room from him. She let out a groan of frustration. It was getting late and she had insisted her parents go to bed. She was up alone frustrated, and much to Draco's delight, looked exhausted and miserable.

They had been going on like this for several days. Despite the constant barrage of questioning, neither one of them had recalled or discovered any useful information whatsoever.

She had been sending and receiving letters from the same, snowy white owl pretty much nonstop. He recognized the owl. He half-expected Potter to break down the back door and murder him at any minute. Draco had taken to asking her what the letter said each time she received one, and each time he had received the same icy "it's-none-of-your-goddamn-business" glare from across the room. He never got tired of this, because it was his only form of entertainment.

One day however, Granger seemed to have had quite enough, and she chucked a black, plastic rectangle covered in buttons at his head. This discovery afforded Draco an entirely new source of entertainment—the Muggle television. It was his sincere opinion that Muggle television was utterly and offensively stupid, but had been so far unable to tear himself away from watching it.

"I'm going to bed," she said finally. She disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a mug full of something steaming. Draco guessed that it wasn't chicken soup.

"What's this?" he said suspiciously, as she thrust it into his hands. It had a smiling, oversized white molar holding a toothbrush and waving obnoxiously emblazoned on it.

"It's sleeping potion," she snapped.

"Why the hell do I need sleeping potion?" he demanded. "I'm mostly healed now, thanks."

"Because," she said flatly. "I don't want you trying anything while I'm not here to watch you." Draco didn't see how that would be a likely scenario, considering that Granger kept him stuck to the couch in a ceaseless Leg-Locker Curse, which she showed no sign of relenting on. He imagined she had horrible visions of him bunny hopping up the stairs and murdering them all in their sleep. He got a tiny grain of satisfaction from that. At least she was still somewhat afraid of him.

"It's probably poison," he said, sniffing it.

Granger clenched her jaw. "Drink! It! Now! Ferret boy!" she hissed through gritted teeth. Draco gave a long suffering sigh and swallowed it one gulp.

Granger stomped away up the stairs, muttering something about wishing he would choke on it. "I'm going to take a shower and go to bed, before Harry and Ron get here in the morning," she said, before disappearing into her room.

Draco could already feel the potion, dragging his mind downwards in a dark, soft haze. He did not relish the thought of facing Scarhead and the Weasel tomorrow, but he didn't think it was going to be avoidable.

…Hmm…Granger in the shower. He tried to banish the thought from his befuddled mind, but it stuck with amazing resiliency.

He had never seen a naked Muggle before though. For all he knew, he consoled himself ruefully, she could be sporting a layer or coarse brown fur beneath those ugly t-shirts.

He doubted it. He fell backwards against the couch, relieved that he didn't have to ponder naked Granger for a moment more.

000

_Draco strode purposefully into the cavernous stone room, his stomach writhing uncomfortably. Snape had brought him here hours before, and he was not looking forward to what was to come. _

_The Dark Lord sat lazily on his throne in the front of the room, watching Draco approach in a manner that was eerily similar to the way a hungry cat watches a mouse. There was a slightly amused smile playing on his lips. _

_Draco bowed low before him. It was not his inclination as Malfoy to bow, but he had little choice in the matter. That was just the way things worked. The room was full of Death Eaters, masks off, spread against the walls and surrounding Draco in a wide circle. Rabastan Lestrange was leering at him from a standing position near the foot the Dark Lord's pedestal raised throne. Snape stood elevated next to his master, on the right side of the throne, his sallow face inscrutable and his gaze fixed on his former pupil. In the back of the room near the door, his mother stood next to her sister in a dark blue traveling cloak, her face white, her hands trembling. _

"_My Lord?" Draco inquired quietly._

"_Draco," said the Dark Lord in a cool, silky voice. "Can you tell me what task I charged you with one year ago, in this very room?"_

_Draco felt like the walls were closing in on him. "Kill Albus Dumbledore," he said, his voice barely above a murmur. A few of the Death Eaters laughed darkly at this prospect. Draco felt his pale face flush with anger._

"_And were you successful in this task?" Long, spindly white fingers drummed idly on the granite arm of his throne. _

_Draco swallowed hard, trying to suppress the bile building in his throat. "No, my Lord."_

_For a moment, the Dark Lord did not move. He stared at Draco, a kind of casual merriment dancing in his snake-like red eyes, his chin resting indolently on his curled hand. Then quite suddenly, Draco was rolling on his back, screaming and writhing in agony that he had never dreamed possible. _

_His mother cried out from the back of the room, only to be shushed impatiently by Bellatrix. "He needs to be taught the price of failing his Master," she cooed, in the most obvious, comforting tones she could manage. They both sounded very far away. _

_Then the pain ended just as suddenly as it had began. He struggled to his feet, sweating and shaking._

"_Draco, I understand that you did try your very best," said the Dark Lord, his voice dripping with sarcasm and condescension. "And thanks to Severus, you utterly abysmal failure ended as quite a monumental success." Snape did not even blink._

"_But I find," he stroked a ling white finger against his wand, "that I have no—place…for you here..." He smiled darkly. "And you are as yet too young to be joining your dear father in Azkaban." Draco paled, lost for words. _

_Near the far back of the room, Fenrir Greyback was crouched on a bench, licking something that looked suspiciously like blood off of his fingers like a greedy child. He stood suddenly, and advanced towards Draco, caressing the air with his filthy hands. _

"_Perhaps, my Lord," said Fenrir, smiling. "I have a place for him amongst my brethren. Or at the very least…" His unnaturally yellow eyes glittered with a feral hunger. "We will be very hungry come the next Moonrise."_

_Draco backed away from him in revulsion, horrified. Were they really going to feed him to the werewolf? Or worse…_

"_I will consider it, Greyback," said the Dark Lord lazily. Fenrir retreated to his former spot, and grinned like a faithful dog that had just been tossed a table scrap. His mother gave a dry sob from the back of the room. _

"_We will deliberate your fate, young Master Malfoy," he said, almost chidingly. "Wait outside." The assembled crowd laughed in amusement. Draco turned and left the room without looking at his sobbing mother, furious at being treated with such disdain. How dare they make a fool of him?_

_The chamber door slammed shut behind him. He sat alone at a long wooden table in the room outside, his body still aching fiercely from the Cruciatus curse. He could hear more laughing from inside the throne room. He glared at the ground, fuming. _

_When he looked up, he found himself gazing into a pair of huge, mud colored eyes. He yelped in surprise and toppled backwards. The most ancient, ugly, wrinkled old house elf he had ever laid eyes on was staring at him from the tabletop. He was wearing nothing but a grubby loincloth and a stained woolen hat perched between his huge, bat-like ears. _

"_What the hell do you think you're doing, you little piece of vermin?" he snarled at it, furious at being caught off-guard. "Sod off. Dinner was cleaned up hours ago."_

_The elf stared intently at him, muttering, though he seemed to be talking to himself more than to Draco. _

"_Kreacher sees it in his skin, his eyes, yes, yes, but is his blood the same as the most Ancient, the most Noble kindred?" The elf squinted at him. _

_Draco scowled. "I said—"_

"_He seeks to banish me, but I do not take his orders, no, no, but I do not listen to them either, Mudbloods and traitors and werewolves and thieves…now that he's dead I have a moment free of secrets, just a moment, oh, what would my poor Mistress say?"_

_The elf was obviously quite mad. Draco took out his wand to get rid of him, but he leapt forward onto the bench and pushed something into Draco's hands. _

"_My poor Mistress loved her proper son so much, broke her heart, loved him, can't let them destroy his pretty things, pretty, pretty, not for vermin and filth."_

_The elf leapt away back onto the table and looked at Draco. "Kreacher has watched him. His blood is pure, his mother helped Kreacher before, yes, nice witch, powerful and pure…guard his mistress's things, Kreacher must, hide them…"_

_With that, the deranged creature snapped his tiny fingers and disappeared with a pop. Draco gaped, momentarily stunned. He looked at the object in his hands. It was a book. A diary to be more precise—dark green dragon's hide cover inlaid with silver filigree, studded with emeralds on the edges. Slytherin colors. Draco recognized it, his parents had given him something similar from Flourish and Blotts when he first started school._

_He opened it and looked inside. On the first page, written in a flowery black script, it said quite clearly, "Journal." How exciting, thought Draco dully. _

_Below that, in the same handwriting, the initials "R.A.B." were printed._

_Who the hell was that? Not that he much cared, he had quite enough to worry about at the moment. He began flipping through the pages. Something caught his eye, but as he opened the book wider to read it, it all began to blur together. _

_He knew he had seen it! Something important, what was it? He grasped madly at it, but it slipped through his fingers like sand, like smoke. The journal, the writing, the room, it all faded away into a blur of darkness and muddled thoughts…_

000

Draco felt something sharp poking against his forehead.

"Where?" he mumbled tiredly, opening his eyes. Ron Weasley's wand was pressing down, directly between his eyes. Next to him, Harry Potter stood, glaring down at him, his emerald eyes narrowed in dislike. They towered above him menacingly, their expressions somewhat less then friendly. Draco suddenly missed Crabbe and Goyle fiercely.

"Hermione," said Weasley, his fiery red hair burning into Draco's dilated pupils. He looked over his shoulder, speaking to someone Draco couldn't see. "You really need to learn to clean your house better."

"Yeah," said Potter, his arms crossed. "You've got a rather large piece of vermin living on your couch."

000

**AN:** Well, what do you guys think? I hope I didn't disappoint anyone too badly. And don't worry—things will start coming together more soon. The Flamel thing will come more into play next chapter. Please review! I love the feedback. YAY!


	3. Cavalry

_Dear Hermione,_

_Ron and I will be coming over tomorrow. Are you sure you're all right? Yes, I've been having a good time at the Burrow. _

_Ginny avoided me for the first day, but I think she got over it. Yesterday she gave me her favorite necklace. She made me promise to come back safely. She said…that she would wait for me, no matter what. I told her not to, but she just shook her head. _

_The necklace is a little golden heart she got from her Great Auntie Muriel when she started Hogwarts. I've been wearing it under my robes. I don't want to tell Ron, because he'll probably make fun of me. It's a pretty damn girly necklace. There's a picture of me and her in there. It's a fairly old picture. I asked her how long it's been in there, but she blushed and wouldn't answer._

_Are you sure you're OK? You sounded a little worried in your last letter. And whatever it is, I promise I won't "overreact."_

_See you soon,_

_Harry _

000

Draco sat huddled on the couch, a blanket swathed defensively around his shoulders. He occasionally threw aggravated looks over at the Golden Trio, who were clustered on the opposite side of the room. They were throwing disapproving glances at him in return with equal frequency.

They were probably whispering, but Draco couldn't tell. The moment the Trio had sat down, a mysterious buzzing in his ears had made him mostly deaf. He strongly suspected that his deafness could be blamed entirely on Potter. He wiggled his finger in his ear and threw another angry look across the room.

Potter sat quietly on the couch, looking deeply pensive. He was staring mostly at Draco, which did not raise Draco's comfort level. Next to him, the Weasel and Granger seemed to be having some sort of quickly escalating argument. Those two were always arguing.

He couldn't for the life of him figure out why someone as smart as Granger would waste her time arguing with Weasley, who had the approximate intelligence level of a flobberworm.

…

Did he really just think that?

000

"I can't believe you took him in," said Ron grumpily, his freckled face somewhat flustered.

"I told you," said Hermione, exasperated. "He was hurt, I brought him inside. What else was I supposed to do?" Ron's eyes bulged slightly, indicating that he had a quite a few suggestions as to what should have been done to Malfoy.

"I dunno," said Ron, in a mockingly thoughtful voice. "Maybe…leave him _outside_?"

"He would have died!" said Hermione. She could feel the color rising in her cheeks. Ron was her best friend, but he was so infuriatingly ignorant sometimes.

Particularly when it came to relationships. She had been so jealous when he was with Lavender, she thought she would burst, but when he held her at Dumbledore's funeral…she thought it was everything she wanted, but when she knew it was hers, finally, she wasn't even sure she wanted it anymore. Not the way she had. Something had grown within her, gotten older, more complicated…they were such good friends. She valued that more than anything, and she loved him and Harry both with all her heart. Should she jeopardize that? Was it even worth it?

"So?" said Ron, as if this was an extremely favorable option. "He's a Death Eater." Ron's scowl deepened. "He tried to—"

"I know what he's tried to do," said Hermione, cutting him off touchily. "I just…I mean, I couldn't…"

"For someone so smart, you're awfully stupid sometimes," said Ron harshly. "I can't believe—" Hermione flushed, furious.

"Well that's just fine, Ron!" she shouted angrily. "Let's just let people we don't like die! If we do that—I mean—then—what is it that separates us from the Death Eaters

anyway?" Ron quickly shut his mouth, his face now as red as hers. For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Harry turned his head from looking out the window and broke the silence.

"Hermione's right, Ron," he said quietly. "We can't just abandon people who need help." Ron, who now looked even more flummoxed, still did not speak.

Something flickered deep within his Harry's emerald green eyes. He looked so… thoughtful. Wise. For a moment, Hermione was eerily reminded of Dumbledore. She looked into his eyes, surprised. She smiled inwardly. Harry had matured more than she thought.

"I don't trust him," said Ron finally, stubbornly crossing his arms and leaning back on his chair. "He's probably trying to trick us."

"I suppose that's a possibility," said Harry, casting a shrewd glance towards Draco. "Or a likelihood." He frowned. "Which does beg the question… just what the hell do we do with him?"

"We could chuck him off a cliff!" said Ron brightly.

Harry turned to Hermione, smoothly ignoring Ron. "You said he had information…?"

"He does know something—that's why he ran, and that's why they attacked him, so it ought to be something important." Hermione shook her head and sighed. "I can't get anything out of him, though. They modified his memory."

"So we ought to torture him then?" asked Ron eagerly, pulling out his wand.

"No torture, Ronald!" said Hermione scoldingly.

"We can't torture him, we can't kill him," said Ron, his voice somewhat playful. "Geez, Hermione, what can we do?"

"You can shut up," suggested Hermione sweetly. Ron was kidding, of course. You know. Probably. There were other methods she had read about that might help revive his memory, but she didn't feel comfortable trying them without her friends there.

"It was a diary," said Malfoy suddenly, his temporary deafness causing his voice to be much louder than necessary. They turned to look at him. "I just remembered when I was asleep."

"A diary?" said Harry in bewilderment.

"WHAT?" asked Malfoy loudly, squinting at him. Rolling his eyes, Harry flicked his wand and released the spell on Malfoy's hearing.

They crossed the room and huddled around him again. Hermione frowned. Oh, sure, he remembers now that Harry and Ron are here to threaten him. She thought that she had been _quite_ intimidating, thank you very much.

"What diary?" demanded Harry.

"That's the part I can't remember," he admitted. Malfoy now looked distinctly uncomfortable, which made Hermione felt a little bit satisfied. And only slightly guilty.

"What do you remember?" said Hermione impatiently. "You said you remembered _more_ just now," she added, trying not to sound bitter.

"Whatever was in the diary—that's the part I lost...but…" He furrowed his brow. Ron rolled his eyes theatrically.

"How did you get the diary?" asked Harry. Hermione could tell it was taking a great deal of his newfound self control not to reach out and slap Malfoy right across his pale face.

"A house elf…" said Malfoy disdainfully. "Nasty little ugly thing it was too. My mother was always saying they should get to killing them when they get that old, hardly useful… anymore…" He trailed off when he saw the livid expression on Hermione's face. Killing them? That little brat! How would he like it if he was forced to do manual labor for his entire natural born life without—

000

Granger looked like she was ready to explode when he started talking about house elves. What the hell was wrong with her anyway? Who cares about those little pests? Crazy long-molared Mudblood…

The Trio looked about ready to chuck him out the door on his arse, which was definitely not a good sign. He had to throw something else out—anything…what else did he remember?

"The elf told me its name!" he blurted out, trying not to sound desperate. They turned, staring at him expectantly. "It was uh…"

Something stupid. Treeture? Teecher? Catcher? Beecher? Keycher? That sounded about right.

"I think it started with a K…" he said slowly. "Er…it sounded kind of like…Keycher?"

Potter and Weasley looked puzzled. As usual, thought Draco ruefully. Idiots. He had no idea how they had survived this long. Probably because of Granger. He looked at her. Her lips were drawn tightly together, and she was looking straight ahead.

She turned to him, her face paler than usual.

"Kreacher," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "Was it Kreacher?"

"Yeah," replied Draco, stroking his chin thoughtfully. "That sounds about right." The trio shared a significant, shocked look. Good. Things were definitely looking up—that is, until Potter grabbed him roughly by the shirt collar.

"Whose diary was it?" he said sharply.

"Oy!" protested Draco. "Hands off, you git!" Draco had half-expected him to yell, but his voice was almost deadly calm. This was not a very welcome change, because the tone was making him feel slightly frightened—though he would _never_ admit that to the Scarhead.

"Shut your gob, Malfoy," snarled Weasley.

"Let him go, Harry," said Granger. Harry pushed him roughly backwards, scowling. Great. The Mudblood was saving him again. Not that he was in any danger. Potter was _not_ scary. No matter how "Chosen" he was. Hmph.

"I didn't get a name," said Draco, straightening his robes. They were hopelessly wrinkled from four days of paraplegia on the couch. "Just initials."

"Well that's something at least," said Hermione, sighing. "What were they?"

Draco paused for a moment. Their eyes bored into him. Hmm…making them wait was sort of amusing.

"I think…wait…oh right." He smirked.

"R. A. B."

Draco had hoped to be rewarded for this information, or at least thanked politely, or even ignored. He had not, however, expected to be slammed roughly against the couch again by an angry Potter. This time, even Granger did not protest.

"If you're lying to me—" he said, his voice dangerous.

"I'm not!" snapped Draco. Oh, if he had his wand, Potter would be on the ground begging him for mercy…

Potter dropped him and began pacing the room wildly. The color had drained from his face.

000

Hermione, meanwhile, was silent, her agile mind working furiously. She had been trying to look up R.A.B. for weeks, with very little success. It had to be someone important, or powerful, or at least clever, to do what he had done. He had defied Voldemort, which wasn't something many people tended to attempt. He had stolen a Horcrux and theoretically destroyed it.

If the diary said "R.A.B.," whatever was inside the diary was probably very dangerous to Voldemort. If Draco had read it, it stood to reason that Voldemort would not be pleased. So they tried to kill Draco, and he ran.

Despite herself, Hermione was actually impressed. She vividly recalled facing down a roomful of Death Eaters last year, and it was not an experience she relished repeating. And Malfoy had escaped with his life—unless it was a trap, which was possible. He could have been a plant. For some reason, she doubted it. She wasn't one to rely on instinct—logic was far more dependable—but for some inexplicable reason she felt that Draco was telling the truth. Or at least, she suspected there was more to the story that he wasn't telling them.

Kreacher's presence opened up a vast new realm of possibilities—very interesting possibilities. The diary had probably come from the Black house. Kreacher had salvaged it for one reason or another—he probably saw an opportunity when Dumbledore died. The diary had belonged to someone at Grimmauld Place—she could have slapped herself. R. A. _B._— B for _Black_.

So someone in the Black household had actually tried to defy "The Dark Lord," as most of them so lovingly referred to him. Well…Sirius hadn't followed Voldemort…he had fought him…she supposed it wasn't impossible…

"Hermione!" said Ron loudly. He waved his hand in front of her face. "Hello? Is anybody home?" She looked away from the patch of carpet she had been staring fixedly at several moments.

"Oh…" she murmured, shaking her head. "You don't think…"

Hermione locked eyes with Harry, who immediately stopped pacing and stared back at her with equal intensity.

"R.A.B." Her eyes were as wide as Harry's.

"What?" said Ron, eager for an explanation.

She licked her lips nervously.

"Regalus Alphard Black."

000

Granger was holding his chin with her disgusting Mudblood hands, and staring through his eyes so intensely Draco wondered if she was trying to see his brain. She frowned, her face thoughtful, and pulled out her wand.

"I have an idea," she said.

"I don't think I'm going to like this idea," said Draco, eyeing her wand apprehensively. Hermione smoothly ignored him, talking instead to Potter and Weasley.

"There's a spell that will allow me to go into his memories, and maybe break through the memory charm," she explained.

"Does it involve torture?" asked Weasley eagerly, brandishing his wand. Draco leaned away from the deranged Weasel and his wand.

"No, Ron, it does not involve torture," she said, irritated. Draco felt relieved. Granger wouldn't really let Weasleby the Poor torture him, would she? Then again…she didn't have much of a reason not to…

"It's not like a Pensive," said Granger, now launching into some long-winded explanation of something complicated and boring. Stupid know-it-all. "The memories are more volatile in the mind. Less orderly, and harder to deal with. This is going to be difficult, and the incantation is rather complex."

"Hermione," said Potter. "I can…" Oh he was such a little hero, wasn't he. Gryffindors. Draco rolled his eyes..

"Don't worry, Harry," said Granger, smiling knowingly. "I can handle it."

_I can handle it, dearest Harry, don't worry your tiny, disfigured head over me. Yay! Friendship!_ Oh, they made him _so_ nauseous…

Granger's wand was now pointed directly between his eyes.

"_Librum Memoria!_" she cried.

000

It felt like—and looked like—rushing down a very dark tunnel, with long streaks and flashes of multicolored light flashing on the sides of the tunnel.

Hermione looked to her left. Malfoy was rushing along beside her, his face a mixture of anger and confusion.

"What the hell is this?" he yelled, though the tunnel was relatively silent.

"I told you," said Hermione impatiently. "We're going into your memories."

"Oh," muttered Malfoy, annoyed. "Of course."

"Try to remember what you can about the diary," she instructed him, as if she were talking to a small child. Muttering mutinously, Malfoy closed his eyes and obeyed.

000

_Draco snapped the journal shut and cast a terrified look at the door to the throne room. His hands were shaking. _

Next to Hermione, Malfoy squinted and surveyed himself critically.

"This is—" he said slowly.

"Your memory," she finished. Hermione stood next to Malfoy, and they both watched the memory play out. It was sort of odd seeing two Malfoys. And certainly not something Hermione would have wished for. One was quite enough unpleasantness.

_The door clicked open, a figure walked out…_The scene suddenly flickered and began to fade into darkness, obscured by fog.

"What happened?" asked Malfoy, frowning.

"You have to concentrate," said Hermione. "Try to remember."

_With a flick of his wand, Draco levitated the journal in front of him and made it disappear. _

"You vanished it," said Hermione, watching his wand movements and imitating them carefully. "We should be able to call it back then, at least it wasn't destroyed…"

_He walked into the throne room, cackles of barely muted laughter echoed around the cavernous stone walls around him. He faced the Dark Lord again, his face pale face tinged with embarrassment, but also hard with resolve. The Dark Lord smirked at him._

"_Draco, after much—deliberation—I have decided—"_

_His face contorted suddenly, his red eyes hardened in suspicion. "What do you…?" He stared hard into Draco's eyes._

"Occlumency?" asked Hermione knowingly. Malfoy ignored her. It really wasn't a question anyway.

_The Dark Lord did not speak for a moment, but his expression was darkening. He raised his wand. _

"_Change of plans, Master Malfoy," he hissed. Eyes wide, Draco pulled out his own wand. A hush fell over the room for a moment, and then suddenly, there was chaos. _

"_Obliviate!" snarled the Dark Lord. _

"_Prote—AHH!" Draco attempted to defend himself, but a curse from his left side send blood splattering from his arm. He flew sideways from the force of the curse, the memory charm hitting him at an odd angle. The room erupted, curses flying towards Draco. He flung himself out of the way, and returned the favor ardently, but far too many curses hit their mark accurately._

Though she was impressed at his survival ability, Hermione cringed in horror as she watched Malfoy's blood spilling freely onto the floor. No one deserved that, no matter how much of a git they were. He stood beside her, not saying a word.

"_Misfacio!" he screamed. He screamed again as another curse raked across his chest. The Dark Lord stood, his face livid with rage, and raised his wand. _

Hermione looked at Malfoy. He was shaking like a leaf, the color completely drained from his face. This was quite a feat, considering he was usually about as tan as a snowdrift.

"Malfoy," she whispered, but he didn't seem to hear her. He stared straight ahead, shaking his head, watching the scene in horror. "Draco," she said a little louder. She tentatively touched his hand. "We have what we need, you can stop now…Draco…"

His entire body was trembling. "No…" he choked.

"_NO!" screamed Narcissa, tearing herself free of Bellatrix's grip. _

"_Cissy!" said Bellatrix impatiently from the back of the room, completely unperturbed by the chaos. _

_Narcissa hurtled forward towards her son, he head swiveling wildly around. "STOP! STOP! STOP!" she screeched. "This is—"_

_A jet of green light slammed into her chest. She fell backwards, frozen, her blue eyes wide with fear. _

"NO!" screamed both Draco's simultaneously.

_Draco raced forward to his mother's side. The room immediately hushed. Draco clutched his mother's hand, unable to tear himself away from her body though he was quickly being surrounded. Someone grabbed his bleeding arm and pulled him roughly to his feet. He snapped suddenly back to reality and howled like a wounded animal. He pushed the person holding him away with a swift kick to the stomach and wrenched his arm free. He lifted his wand and Apparated away with a resounding crack._

"Draco, stop!" she said, her voice shrill. "That's enough." Hermione seized Malfoy's arm and raised her wand.

"_Occludo Mentis!_"

The hurtled backwards through the dark tunnel for only a moment, and then they were back in the living room.

000

"Well?" said Ron impatiently. "Did you find it?"

Hermione looked at Malfoy. He was sitting on the couch, silent, white-faced, and trembling.

"Y—yes," she said. She looked back at Ron, her stomach writhing with guilt. She swished her wand, left, right, left, up—

"_Envanesco_."

The diary appeared and dropped into Harry's lap. He flipped it open and began thumbing through the pages. Hermione caught sight of the first page.

"Journal…R.A.B."

"Hey," said Harry, his brow furrowing. "What the hell? It's all…" He flipped the pages rapidly beneath his thumb. "Blank." He glared at Malfoy, who was still shaking. Harry didn't seem to notice.

"What gives, Malfoy?" he snarled. "If you're playing us, I'll—"

"I'm not," he said fiercely, his voice tight. He stood up and walked quickly into the kitchen, his hands clenched so tightly that his knuckles were white.

Hermione realized she had forgotten to bind his legs, but she suddenly wasn't very concerned about that anymore.

"Do you think he's going to take off?" asked Ron suspiciously.

"No," said Hermione, softly.

"Well—why not?" asked Ron in disbelief.

"Because…" Visions of a cavernous stone room, full of darkness danced before her eyes. She stared at the kitchen door, pity welling deep within her.

"He has no where else to go."

000

**AN:** OK, I'll get to the Flamel thing eventually. I'm sorry, I get overzealous sometimes. Also, it is my goal to have Draco come around slowly. He's pompous and racist and ignorant. It's gonna take some time. But when it does…it's gonna be awesome.

**Professional Widow:** Hehe, yes thank you for your observations about the Leg-Locker Curse. The first time Hermione came down the stairs, she had him in a Full Body Bind, and then the rest of the time she just paralyzed his legs. (So he could talk and watch TV, etc.) You are really observant. I'm flattered. Thanks for reviewing!

Just out of curiosity, I was considering having another character make a brief but awesome cameo that fits into the plotline! Who would you like to see?

**Lupin**

**Lupin and Tonks**

**Professor McGonagall**

**Fred and George**

**PS:** There will be no Tonks without Lupin. Lupin is awesome. So there.

**PPS:** Review! Or I'll explode.


	4. The Eldest Son

Draco stormed into Granger's kitchen, hot tears prickling in his eyes. He was _not_ going to have a breakdown in the Mudblood's kitchen. That was not acceptable.

He had spent a greater part of the past year sneaking into the abandoned bathroom on the second floor of the school so he could cry like a little girl without anyone bothering him. Well—there was a rather obnoxious ghost living in there, and she kept giving him those doe-eyed smiles that Pansy gave him—but mostly she didn't bother him.

He hated himself so much when he was in there—and he couldn't for the life of him figure out why. He was doing exactly what he was supposed to be doing. He had felt so alone then…no one understood. He laughed bitterly. He had been such an idiot then. It was now that he was truly alone.

He kept seeing the scene playing over and over again in front of his eyes. Pale, frozen hands, wide glassy eyes, the fluttering of the velvety blue cloak as it fell to the floor, and everything, motionless and still…forever.

He hadn't wanted to remember. He pushed it away, pushed it from his mind, hid it deep inside somewhere where it couldn't tear him apart like it was doing now.

He wiped his eyes, letting out a shuddering sigh in defeat. He really, really did suck at Occlumency, which wasn't fair—he was usually good at it.

"Malfoy…" said a soft voice from behind him. He stiffened, but did not turn around. "Malfoy…" the voice repeated. He hung his head, swallowing hard.

"What?" he managed, trying to sound cold.

"We need you in the living room," said Granger gently. He finally turned and met her eyes. They were large, over-bright, and full of sympathy. "I—I have an idea about the…"

He wordlessly walked towards the kitchen door, brushing past her as he attempted to pass through the doorway.

"Draco," she whispered. "I'm so sorry about what happened to—"

"Don't," he said sharply. He stopped in the doorway next to her, his voice tight. He stared at the ground ahead, refusing to meet her eyes.

"Don't what?" she asked sadly.

"Don't—don't look at me like that!" he whispered fiercely, his head snapping around. He locked gazes with her. "I don't need your pity, Granger. Sod off!" He pushed roughly past her and made his way back into the living room.

000

Malfoy threw himself down on the sofa, his arms crossed defensively. Hermione followed him into the living room and sat down next to Harry. She pulled the book out of Harry's hands and clasped it in her lap.

How must Malfoy feel right now? Things were so complicated. She wished they could be simpler—she wished she didn't feel sympathy for Malfoy, who had tortured her for her entire school career. She wished Narcissa Mafloy was still alive, even though the woman had looked at her like she was a heap of dragon dung the first and only time she had spoken to her.

She couldn't imagine watching her mother murdered, right before her eyes. She closed her eyes, shivering.

"Well?" asked Rom impatiently. She opened her eyes and looked at Harry.

"I have a theory," she said. Malfoy had seen something in the diary, she had evidence of that—so there must be _something_ there.

She laid open the diary on the table at one of the blank pages. She grasped one of Malfoy's cold hands and pressed it to the page. She expected him to protest, but he merely frowned, his lips shut tightly.

Slowly, words began to curl onto the page, spreading out from his fingertips in an inky black script. Hermione smiled triumphantly. Harry and Ron leaned into read the words, amazed. Even Malfoy looked surprised.

It was a diary entry. There were several on the page, from varying dates. Hermione flipped through the pages, her heart rising her chest. She kept Malfoy's hand pressed tightly against the diary. The oddly enough, only about half of the diary was filled. She opened it to one of the earlier entries. Entranced by curiosity, all four of them leaned their heads in and began reading.

000

_October 31, 1976_

_I've been avoiding Sirius all year, but every time he runs into me in the hall, he and his stupid Gryffindor friends try and hex me! Sirius is such a prat. I think he's mad because Mum favors me. Mum would probably favor him too, if he wasn't such a prat. _

_The Great Hall was attacked by a swarm of crazed bats and bunch of orange fireworks this morning. I suppose it was a Halloween prank. We can only guess who will claim responsibility in the future, but Professor McGonagall dragged Sirius and his friend _

_James Potter out of the Great Hall by their ears this morning while they laughed hysterically. I have a feeling they could cover their tracks if they wanted to, but they want the entire ruddy world to know how incredibly clever and immature they are._

_He also hangs around with that Lupin kid who always looks sick and that fat kid, Pettigrew. I heard his friends call him 'Padfoot'. He seemed to like the name 'Padfoot,' but when I tried to call him Padfoot, he hexed me. Of course, what else would he do? Prat._

_He now has a lovely nickname for me, which I won't write down because it's stupid. And now he won't use my real name, just that bloody nickname. Sirius and his friends all have stupid nicknames for each other. I mentioned this to Snape yesterday, and he looked like he was going to explode, and said that Lupin should be put down like a rabid dog. I asked him what the hell he was talking about, but he just stalked off into his dormitory. _

_Later, _

_R. A. B._

There were more. The diary was slightly erratic in its entries, but seemed to be chronological. Some were extremely short, some were longer.

_June 27, 1980_

_I joined them today. I'm not sure how I feel about that. Wilkes has been bugging Mum about it for ages. She seemed quite proud. Wilkes is an old friend of the family of course, and Bella…well, she seems quite pleased about it as well._

_He kept mentioning the time I spent studying with Nicolas Flamel last summer. Is that why he wanted me in the first place? _

_R. A. B._

"Look at this one," said Potter, his eyes widening.

_February 15, 1981_

_I've hidden that last Horcrux. Now I know why he needed someone with experience in alchemy. I also noticed the reason the Dark Lord could not enter the tomb himself. There is some ancient magic alive in that place. _

_The tomb didn't react too kindly when I replaced the artifact. I felt like I was desecrating something very old, and very powerful. _

_That seems to be happening a lot lately. _

_R. A. B._

Tomb? What tomb? Whatever the memory charm had erased, Draco had the feeling he was getting it back right now.

_September 29, 1981_

_This is the end for me. I can't…do this anymore. There are terrible things happening here. _

_I'm going to end it. He'll kill me if I do. It's worth it though. _

_I wish Sirius would answer my letters. I could use his help. _

_R. A. B._

There were a few more entries, but they were equally as vague. That was why the Dark Lord had tried to kill him? It wasn't even that much information! Bastard…

"So—he—" Granger gasped, looking wildly between her two friends. "He was the one who—that must be how he managed to get the locket without setting off the traps…"

"I thought Sirius said Regulus was an evil git," said Weasley, frowning. Oh no, his tiny brain was having difficult processing nuance! Draco dearly hoped his head would explode from the strain of thinking too hard.

Potter shrugged. "I suppose…he could have been mistaken…" he said slowly. "It sounds like they were out of touch…"

Granger looked at Draco again, her face thoughtful.

"I'll be right back," she said, racing up the stairs.

Potter looked at the page. "What are those?" he asked, staring at the tiny runes at the page corner. It figures. What a moron.

"Those are Arithmancy runes," said Draco, breaking his silence. The two idiots stared at him in confusion. "They're _numbers_, Scarhead," he sneered, as if it were obvious.

"Oh, right," said Weasley. "Knew that."

"Only…" Draco turned the pages slowly, frowning. "They're out of order."

"Why?" asked Weasley.

"How should I know?" snapped Draco. Granger reappeared in the living room, holding an eraser triumphantly aloft. She plopped down next to Draco and opened the book to the very back page, which was still blank.

"If I'm right…" she murmured. Draco was quickly learning that Granger was almost always right, which annoyed him greatly. She began rubbing it with the eraser. Words appeared.

_The Secrets Within Shall be Hidden from All,_

_Except the for the Eldest Son of the House of Black,_

_Pure of Blood, Eyes of Grey._

"Regulus put a Concealment Charm on it," she explained breathlessly. "So only certain people could read it." She surveyed Draco critically.

"Oh, I've seen that before," said Weasley, as if that were remotely of any consequence whatsoever. He moved on to tell some ridiculous story about his brother Percy's diary, which Draco found unbearably dull. Much to his surprise, Potter and Granger actually seemed interested.

"…and so he was trying to get it to lock out anyone who wasn't a Prefect, but Charlie came home for the summer and swiped it for Fred and George so they could write 'great pompous git' in it, and then he was even more angry at the fact that he could still read it…"

The Trio laughed good-naturedly. Draco made a face at them which they all ignored. The laughter faded quickly, and they once again looked serious. Granger looked at him, then she turned to Potter.

"You know, Harry…" she said slowly, placing her hand on the Concealing Charm message. "Regulus—he must have had someone specific in mind when he left this behind. Do you think…"

"Sirius," said Potter heavily. "He wanted Sirius to find it."

"Oh…" said Weasley softly, looking at the diary. Draco was getting awfully tired of holding his hand on the stupid thing. He tapped his foot impatiently, only to be ignored once again. "But…Sirius is dead…."

"I know," said Granger, glancing quickly at Harry. What? Did she expect him to burst into tears all over the place? _Women_. "It was specific. The eldest son of the Black Family—all his cousins were girls—and most of them were Death Eaters, so…and the person had to be a pureblood, and just to seal the deal, they had to have…" She looked at Draco. "Gray eyes…"

"Are you saying…" said Potter, his voice shaking with obvious frustration and anger. "That we _need_ Draco _Malfoy_ to read this thing?" He pointed an accusatory finger at Draco.

"Yes…" said Granger apologetically. "He's the only one who fits the criteria…"

So they needed him. He was still holding some cards at least—and they weren't going to chuck him out on his arse at any point in the near future.

The three of them turned and stared at Draco in what looked almost like horror. As he gleefully surveyed the absolutely stricken looks on their faces, he realized his day had just gotten considerably brighter.

There was a long silence.

"There are Arithmancy runes numbering the pages," blurted out Weasley importantly, as if he had discovered this all by himself. Draco scowled. Granger immediately began flipping through them. "Only they're—"

"Out of order," she said, furrowing her brow. She continued to look at them. Weasley looked crestfallen. Hah. Granger continued to look at the runes, her frustration deepening, then suddenly, her eyes lit up. "Oh!" she said excitedly. "It's a code!"

She eagerly pulled a quill and paper from the drawer next to her and began copying down the numbers. Potter and Weasley watched her silently. She looked like a child who had just stepped into Honeyduke's for the first time. Draco shook his head. Codes were _not_ exciting. Granger was a freak of nature.

"It corresponds to dates, and then letters on the page…" she muttered, more to herself than anyone else in the room. She absently yanked Draco's hand roughly towards her so she could get a better view of the pages. Draco grunted in protest, but leaned forward. Finally, she smiled in satisfaction and put down the paper she had been writing on. She flipped the book open to the first blank page and set it down on the table. There were three small blank boxes in the center of the page.

"I think—" she said excitedly. "That the rest of the book will reveal itself if we give it the proper password."

"What does the code say?" asked Potter. He was apparently too useless to try to figure it out himself.

Granger pushed the paper towards him. It read "Padfoot and ?"

"Whatever the last word is, it's probably something that Sirius and Regulus shared exclusively…if anything…" said Potter.

"Exactly," said Granger, pushing the "October 31, 1976" entry towards him. She tapped her finger on it.

"Some sort of rude nickname, then?" said Weasley, craning his head towards the page. "Sounds brotherly to me." Weasley had actually contributed something useful? Draco thought he might drop dead from shock.

"Right," she said. "That means we need to find someone trustworthy, who knew them both at school."

"Hermione," Potter said slowly. "When was the last full moon?"

000

Hermione's mum had nearly had a heart attack when she materialized in the middle of the large office the Granger's shared. She had come to say goodbye—which she did. Her parents gave her a tight hug and made her promise to come home safely. She did, blinking back tears, and disappeared. It was all very simple, understanding, and kind. She loved that so much about her parents, and she sincerely hoped she could fulfill her promise.

Hermione trudged through the dense forest, following closely behind Ron and Harry, snapping twigs and rustling dead leaves as she went. She was dragging Malfoy by the arm like a misbehaving toddler. He had ceased the loud and obnoxious complaining he was famous for, and was now simply grumbling mutinously under his breath.

She didn't know why _she_ had to drag him along. She was not too pleased about being appointed his unofficial babysitter, but she supposed it couldn't be helped. She had given Harry Malfoy's wand for safekeeping, and he had stowed it in the pocket of his robes, far away from Malfoy himself.

"Where are we going?" demanded Malfoy.

"We're going to visit an old friend," said Hermione flatly. She hoped Malfoy could make it through this encounter without forcing her to bind his jaw shut. Wait a minute—what was she thinking? She would _love_ to curse Draco Malfoy's jaw shut. It would probably brighten her day considerably. She smiled.

"What's so damn funny?" asked Malfoy, glaring at her.

"Nothing," she said rather quickly. "Oh look! We're here!"

The house was rather tiny and simple. They approached the door, unconsciously moving into a V-shaped formation as they went, with Harry in the front and his companions flanking him on either side. He reached forward and knocked on the door. Hermione dearly hoped he was home, and they hadn't come out all this way in vain.

A smile curled onto her lips as the door opened and she found herself staring into the eyes of her former Professor. Remus Lupin stared back at them from the doorway. His clothes were as shabby as ever, and his face was pallid, but he looked happier than she had ever seen him. He looked pleased to see them, but also somewhat concerned.

"Harry?" asked Lupin in bewilderment. "Ron? Hermione? What are you doing here? Are you all right?" His eyes fell on Malfoy, who scowled at him.

"We're fine Remus," said Harry reassuringly. "We just wanted to talk."

"Oh," said Lupin, relaxing slightly. "Well then, please come in." He stepped sideways and extended a welcoming hand. "We were just—"

There was a loud crashing sound from the back of the house as something that was apparently very fragile met a noisy and untimely demise. It was immediately accompanied by an apologetic female voice.

"I'm sorry! I'll fix that one too!" she yelled.

"—cleaning," finished Lupin, wincing.

000

They shuffled out of the foyer and into the kitchen. The Trio looked perfectly at home. Draco on the other hand, probably would have taken off for the door if it hadn't been for Granger's vice-like grip on his arm.

"Are you thirsty?" asked the werewolf. He walked over to one of the cabinets. "I'm sorry, I haven't been…here…very much lately, but I do have some—"

_Human blood?_ supplied Draco silently.

"—tea." He pulled a box out of the cabinet.

"Tea would be lovely," said Granger warmly. How could they interact with him like this? Being around the werewolf made him uneasy. He had not enjoyed interacting with Greyback over the past few months. He sort of expected Lupin to leap forward and tear his throat out at any moment—but Lupin merely smiled pleasantly and conjured some water.

The half-breed's house was definitely not what he expected. Then again, he hadn't expected a house at all—more of a small cave littered with decaying human bones—but there it was. It was small, and extremely plain. It didn't have nearly as many stupid knickknacks as the Granger's house did. He liked Granger's house better. Stupid half-breed.

…

Stupid Granger.

In a few moments, there were five steaming cups of chamomile tea sitting on the table before him. Draco eyed Lupin suspiciously, deciding that he was definitely not thirsty.

Lupin cast a few fleeting glances at him, then looked at Potter.

"Harry—" he began.

"It's all right, Remus," said Potter. "He's with us—not that any of us are pleased with that arrangement—but it can't really be helped."

Draco angrily opened his mouth to fill them all in on just exactly how pleased he was to have gone from visiting the Mudblood's tasteless hovel to a half-breed wastrel's tasteless hovel, but Granger flicked her wand and his jaw suddenly snapped shut.

"He's not allowed to talk," she said, smiling cheerfully. At that moment, a pink haired girl in a pair of torn jeans bounded into the kitchen. She was clutching what looked like an excessively lacy bit of lingerie in her hand.

"Remus, I swear I had a purple one of these yesterday, and I think I left it in your—"

The girl stopped dead when she saw them, her eyes wide. She squeaked and violently hurled the undergarment over her shoulder into the living room behind her as casually as possible. The five of them gawked at her. Weasley choked impressively on his tea, while everyone else merely blushed.

"Remus…" she said squeakily. "You didn't tell me we had guests…"

Draco stared at her through narrowed eyes. He was pretty sure he recalled her as a disowned cousin or something. Merlin and Agrippa. The thought of the bloodline those two freaks would produce if they decided to procreate was _beyond_ horrifying.

000

"Would you like something to drink, Nymphadora?" offered Lupin, who sounded absolutely calm despite his obviously flushed cheeks.

"Sure," she said, talking a seat next to Lupin. "And don't call me, Nymphadora," she added stubbornly, though she said it in an almost endearing tone. Hermione sighed fondly. She had hoped Remus and Tonks would work through whatever it was they needed to work through. He did deserve a little happiness, after all. He was a good man, and a very good teacher. She had missed him fiercely in DADA for the past few years. If there was one thing she absolutely _hated_, it was incompetent teachers.

Lupin conjured a tea cup and poured some hot water into it.

"Well," said Lupin bracingly, with a small smile. "Other than shattering what remains of my dignity, what all did you want to talk about?"

"Regulus Black," said Ron.

"Do you remember anything about him?" asked Harry.

"Regulus?" said Lupin, leaning back thoughtfully in his chair. "Well, he was about two years behind Sirius, and in Slytherin. I never really talked to him. Sirius hated him though. I suppose it was a sibling thing. Hexed him whenever he got the chance."

"What was he like?" asked Hermione.

"He was fairly quiet," said Lupin. "But he was very intelligent. He was particularly interested in Alchemy—I believe that's what he wanted to study when he left school. He even used his family's connections to study with Nicolas Flamel over the summer sixth year. Sirius complained about that for weeks."

"And—he joined—"

"Yes, he was almost definitely a Death Eater. Sirius was sure of it, at least."

They all looked quickly at Malfoy. Malfoy, whose jaw was fused shut, said nothing. He scowled.

"Remus," said Hermione. "This—might sound like a bit of an odd question, but—was there any kind of nickname that Sirius had for Regulus?"

"A nickname?" Lupin furrowed his brow thoughtfully. "I believe…he called him 'Peaches.' Or a variety of girl's names."

"Peaches?"

"Not the most clever or mature of nicknames, but Sirius seemed pleased with it. He was a bit of an idiot at that age," added Lupin fondly.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione looked at each other. Hermione was smiling broadly. Harry looked quietly pleased. Ron was staring at the doorway to the room where Tonks had tossed her lacy magenta bra as though mesmerized. Harry stood up first.

"Thank you, Remus," he said sincerely. "And thanks for the tea, but we really must be on our way."

"Of course," said Lupin. They all stood up and moved towards the door. "I hope I've been of some help, though I really haven't any idea what you're doing…" They looked at each other nervously. Harry opened his mouth, but Lupin held up his hand for silence. "Harry—whatever your task is—its fulfillment has been designated specifically to you by—" Lupin swallowed. "Dumbledore. And that task should remain yours alone."

Harry nodded blankly. Hermione could see the pain in Lupin's eyes when he mentioned Dumbledore's name. The Headmaster had given a great deal to many people—Lupin being one of the greatest benefactors. Without Dumbledore, she realized in alarm, he wouldn't even be _educated_…how could the world be so cruel and ignorant about so many things?

"Where to now?" asked Ron, as they trudged away from Lupin's house. Lupin and Tonks waved goodbye cheerfully from the doorway behind them. Hermione was still pulling Malfoy along by the arm.

"Unfortunately…" said Harry wincing. "We have to go to the Dursley's…"

"Bloody hell," grumbled Ron. "Do we really have to?"

"I gave Dumbledore my word…" said Harry, shrugging apologetically. "I suppose…I have promises to keep..." He sighed, striding ahead of the group.

_And miles to go before I sleep…_finished Hermione's brain automatically, though she wasn't quite sure why.

000

Draco traipsed along beside Granger, not entirely pleased with the way his life was currently going. However, he was at least pleased that his jaw had regained its full range of motion.

"Who are the Dursleys?" he asked, frowning at Granger.

"The horrid Muggle relatives that Harry lives with," said Granger shortly, still looking straight ahead as she made her way through the woods.

"_Muggles_?" blurted out Draco in disgust. First the Mudblood's house, then the half-breed freak's house, and now he had to go to some filthy Muggle hole? Why bother? Why didn't he just throw himself into a pile of dragon dung, roll around a bit, and call it a day?

Granger gave him an icy stare. In retrospect, he decided that Granger's icy glare served as a much better instrument for getting him to shut the hell up than any curse could ever do.

000

**AN:** Yes, Lupin and Tonks won the race. I hope my characterization of them wasn't too off, lol. I'm a huge L/T shipper, I'm not ashamed to admit it. Fred and George came in second, so I think we might pay a visit to Diagon Alley next chapter…mwa ha ha…

**Aislynn Crowdaughter:** The diary is not a Horcrux, but awesome guess! Just to clarify for everybody, Regulus is definitely dead.

**xOxOkIsSmYaSsXoXo:** Yes, I know, it was mean to kill off Narcissa. I'm sorry. What can I say? I thrive on angst.

**Portia Malfoy:** I made up the memory retrieval spell, because I'm weird like that. If you read "Legacy," you'll notice that I have a strange obsession with Pensieves, lol. I make up spells by looking up random words like "Mind" or "Close" on an online English to Latin dictionary. Hehehe, it seems to work well.

My sister pointed out to me that I seem to employ a constant oscillation between angst and humor in my stories. I think I inherited that from watching too much Buffy. Mmm….Flangst. I see the D/H ship as a similar to the Spike/Buffy ship. Hehe. If you hate Buffy, don't worry—this just means that I will be putting Draco in leather pants.

Thanks for reviewing! Keep 'em coming. If anyone posts questions, I'll do my best to answer them.


	5. Dead Ends

There was absolutely no shade on Privet Drive. The trees present were sparse and undeveloped, and the yellowed, dying grass was clinging faintly to the edges of the burning pavement. Row after row of disturbingly similar little houses were arranged in perfect symmetry up and down the lane. The sun was beating down rather oppressively on them, and Draco was still wearing his wizarding robes over top of his usual clothes, so he was stiflingly hot.

They stopped abruptly in front of one of the houses—small, unassuming, and pretty much exactly like every other house on the block. The house looked a bit like Granger's, only Granger's house was nearly twice its size. Did Granger's family have…money? Draco looked at the tiny, pale blue mailbox, which was surrounded by wilting flowers. The bronzed letter "4" shone dully on the side of its wooden support pole.

Potter paused in the front of the house, on the sidewalk. He stared up at the house, his arms folded.

"Home sweet home," he said dully.

Granger looked at Harry uncertainly, biting her lip. He stood in front of the house and stared at it miserably. She let him have a moment to collect his thoughts, then grabbed his arm gently.

"Harry, are you ready to…?" she trailed off uncertainly. Potter took a step forward, then froze.

"C'mon mate," said Weasley, clapping him lightly on the shoulder. "Gotta go in eventually."

They were being awfully supportive, Draco reflected. By now, if Crabbe or Goyle had been standing out there like that, he would have told them to suck it up.

Finally, Potter seemed to steel himself, and he started down the front path. Granger and Weasley tagged along behind him. Draco gave a long suffering sigh and followed, leaving a healthy distance between them as he went.

000

Vernon Dursely was even more bloated, purple, and ugly looking than Hermione had imagined from the eyewitness testimony of her two best friends. His round face puffed up and turned an interesting shade of puce when he opened the door and found himself staring at the face of his estranged nephew.

"Hullo, Uncle Vernon," said Harry, as pleasantly as possible. "May we come in?" He pushed past him and walked through the door without waiting for an answer. Hermione and Ron, and then Malfoy a few moments later, followed behind him.

"Oh, ho ho no!" growled Vernon, puffing up even further. He now resembled a large, irate bullfrog. "Who are these people?" he demanded. He slammed the door behind him and whirled around to face the assembled crowd in his living room.

"These are my friends," said Harry. "Well—most of them are." He threw quick look at Malfoy, who very clearly mouthed something vulgar at him without speaking. By this time, two people that Hermione immediately identified at Aunt Petunia and Dudley Dursley walked into the living room. Aunt Petunia clasped one of Dudley's pudgy shoulders protectively with a bony hand.

"You've got friends?" said Dudley disbelievingly. Dudley Dursley was one of the most disgusting creatures Hermione had ever laid eyes on. Being spoiled was one thing—but this boy looked like the very personification of gluttony.

"Friends from _school_," clarified Harry. Uncle Vernon's bulging eyes traveled across them, resting on the wand thrust into Ron's belt, as well as the one poking out of Harry's pocket. Fear flickered in his eyes.

"That's—that's—" He moved across the room, placing himself between the wizards in his living room and his family. "Look, I'm not in the business of adopting freaks." He pointed a puffy pink finger at Harry. "You can stay, but the rest of these people have got to go!"

Harry opened his mouth in fury. Ron was sticking his tongue out at Dudley, which seemed to be causing the obese boy excessive amounts of distress. Hermione stepped forward, trying her best to be diplomatic.

"Mr. Dursley, I realize that we are putting quite an imposition upon you, but if you would just consent to house us for one night I'm sure we could come to some kind of suitable—"

Ron, meanwhile, had decided to take matters into his own hands, which consisted of pulling his wand out of his belt at the same time Hermione was doing her best to be discreet. "Look you gits—" he began, brandishing his wand casually. The Dursleys collectively recoiled, and Uncle Vernon grabbed a set of coasters from a nearby end table and held them aloft, cocking his hand back like a baseball pitcher.

Suddenly Malfoy strode forward and advanced on the Dursleys, his face cold. They cowered slightly as he conversed with them in low tones. Hermione wondered what on earth he could be saying to them that was making them recoil in terror. It was pretty arrogant of him considering that he didn't have a wand, and if Uncle Vernon decided to chuck those coasters at his head, his only retaliation would be to sprout a large, purple bruise.

000

Draco had come to the conclusion that he had tolerated quite enough of this nonsense for one night. The house was tolerably clean—though it was inhabited primarily by filthy Muggles—and he decided that he would be willing to sleep here for a night.

He advanced on the Muggles in the most menacing way possible, and they were appropriately terrified, which pleased him greatly.

"Would you like to know why I'm here?" he drawled, his voice soft and dangerous. "It's a rather long story, and I don't imagine your tiny Muggle minds would understand much of it—but it culminates in my father spending some time in jail. Would you like to know why?" The Dursleys stared at him in alarm. He smiled icily.

"You see—he had a bit of a talent for mercilessly torturing Muggles like yourselves. Wretched, ignorant creatures, if you ask me. In fact, I've been thinking of venturing into the _family_ _business_, if you know what I mean." The woman let out a squeak of fright. Draco leaned in, milking every moment.

"Unless of course…some Muggles were to perhaps prove that they weren't so disgusting after all by offering us some very simple hospitality—then they might not end up thirty feet in the air in the middle of the night, jerking and twitching…and screaming their foolish little heads off." He finished, his dark smile widening.

Dursley looked quite faint, he began stammering inaudibly. Draco was quite pleased with himself. He backed away from the filthy Muggle family and stood next to Granger, arms crossed defiantly. The man was staring at him in abject terror. Draco sneered at him. His gaze flitted back and forth between Potter and Draco. Finally, he managed to speak.

"You—you can all stay here," he managed faintly. "D—dinners at seven." He herded his family into the kitchen, where they hid for the next several hours.

000

Hermione was dreadfully curious about what Malfoy had said to the Dursleys, but she decided not to stoop low enough to ask him. He certainly did have a talent for manipulating people. However, it wasn't the most pressing thing on her mind at the moment. They were all alone in the living room, and she was currently practically trembling with anticipation at being able to unlock the secrets of the diary. She laid the diary open on the table and pressed Malfoy's hand against it.

"Did you threaten them?" demanded Harry, asking her question for her.

"What the hell do you care?" snapped Malfoy. "It worked, didn't it?"

Harry turned away without responding, but Hermione noticed that there was a very cheerful smile on his face. The diary was once again full of handwritten black script. She grabbed a quill out of her pocket and quickly wrote out their hard won password in one of the boxes. Her heart leapt as the diary began to glow. The words Hermione had written disappeared, and were replaced by another letter.

_Sirius,_

_I know I've been an idiot, and I'm sorry. I'm sorry we were never very close—_

Hermione saw Malfoy roll his eyes. He probably would have walked away, but she had his hand pinned to the diary. It felt cold. His hands were always so cold…

…_but I really need your help now. You're the only one I trust to fulfill this task when I am gone. I'm sure you know of Horcruxes. The Dark Lord has hidden his soul in dark places, and he has hidden it well. And…I have helped him do this. Forgive me. I was young and stupid. I should think you of all people would understand this. _

_I will never pretend that I understand the nuances of his insane mind, but the Dark Lord is seems possessed with Hogwarts school in this endeavor—the Founders in particular. I have seen a locket owned by Salazar Slytherin, a cup owned by Helga Hufflepuff, and a chalice owned by Rowena Ravenclaw. I have the locket in my possession already, and I am preparing to destroy it, which is why I am so certain I will be dead before you read this._

_The Dark Lord wanted me to help him penetrate Ravenclaw's tomb. She buried herself there with many powerful relics, and he was obsessed with gaining one of them. There are many secrets buried in that cave, and despite himself the Dark Lord has sought knowledge of few of them. He himself is banned, unable to enter the cave. I have left instructions for you here in this book, but I fear the path may have become more treacherous. _

_It is said that Rowena Ravenclaw was an accomplished Alchemist as well as a witch, and I have seen much evidence that this is true. My skills are nothing compared to that of Nicolas Flamel, and as a former pupil, I was forced to enlist his aid in my endeavor. He suspected my intentions after awhile I fear, and turned me away, but not before I was able get what I needed. _

_Go to him Sirius. He is friends with Dumbledore, who I am sure is your ally as well. Flamel's Elixir of Life is immensely powerful, so he is sure to be alive somewhere. I know that you can convince him to help you. You are the only one who can. _

_With infinite regret,_

_Regulus Alphard Black_

They were all very silent for a long time as the message sunk in. Regulus and Sirius Black. Nicolas Flamel. Albus Dumbledore. Ron finally spoke.

"We're completely fucked," he observed accurately.

000

Dinner had lasted an hour and passed in absolute, stony silence. Hermione had explored the diary a little further, as long as they were there—but it seemed futile. The diary was full of riddles, complex prose, and strange diagrams and symbols. The only thing she really knew for sure was that they needed to go to Albania. And then…it seemed rather hopeless.

Harry trudged up the stairs late that night, and everyone followed immediately after him, though Hermione noticed Malfoy was staring rather obsessively at the powered down Muggle television set as he went upstairs.

"Right," said Harry in a tired voice. He pushed opened a door, revealing a neglected, dusty bedroom and an extremely rickety bed. "Ron, Malfoy—" He looked at Malfoy in distaste. "We'll sleep in here." He pointed to another room. "Hermione, you can sleep down the hall in Dudley's room. From what I understand he's currently curled up into a ball at the foot of his parents' bed, so it should be free. You may want to clean all the crumbs off the sheets though, I think he eats in there…pretty much every waking moment."

Hermione nodded. The woman gets the lone bedroom to herself while all the men crowd heroically into one room. How delightfully chauvinistic. Did she say chauvinistic? She meant chivalrous. Yes, very chivalrous. It was so illogical for them to actually have space to breathe while they slept. The implications of impropriety were simply staggering! She sighed and stalked off to find her bedroom.

000

"I've got to sleep in here with you?" said Draco, his lip curling in disgust.

"Yeah," said Potter sarcastically. "Don't hog the covers." He began laughing at the horrified look on Draco's face. He pointed his wand at the corner of the room and a squashy blue sleeping bag popped into existence. "Congratulations, you get to sleep on the floor." Potter turned away and began making his own bed. Draco grumbled under his breath.

Potter was such an arrogant little git. For some reason, he had expected the "Boy Who Lived" to be living somewhere that wasn't a tiny little Muggle hell-hole. More of a lavishly decorated room with a giant four poster bed, the walls hung with deep green velvet—oh wait, that was his room. He remembered his life at Malfoy Manor with a pang of longing. It was a far cry from a hard wooden floor and a sleeping bag. Then again, as he looked around Potter's room, he noticed with some satisfaction that it was approximately the size of his closet.

Weasley had wandered off somewhere else, probably chasing after Granger. She was too good for him.

Wait, _what_? She wasn't good at anything but being a pain in his ass! And she was a Mudblood…Wretched, Filthy, Unclean. Hmm. He felt a little better.

"I want a pillow," he complained. Scarhead grumbled and conjured him a pillow.

"Can I have my wand back now?" he asked Potter impatiently.

"Why?" asked Potter, frowning.

"Why the hell not?" he countered. "It's mine."

"I'm just grasping here," said Potter in mock thoughtfulness, "but I was thinking that if I give you back your wand, you'll murder us all in our sleep." Why did everyone think that?

"I'm not going to murder you in your sleep," he said irritated. "Besides—how do I know you're not going to murder me? Apparently that diary is rather useless—"

Potter looked angry. "We're not going to kill you," he said sharply. "And the diary is _not_ useless, we'll think of something."

"Sure…" said Draco skeptically. He busied himself positioning his sleeping bag and pillow, but he noticed that no matter where he placed it, it was still lying on an uncomfortable hardwood floor. They were both silent. Weasley still had not returned.

"If you didn't need me to read that diary thing, would you kill me?" asked Draco suddenly, breaking the silence. Potter stared at him, as if considering very carefully.

"No," he admitted finally. "We wouldn't kill you. What the hell is wrong with you anyway? You are such an evil little bastard. You can't just go off _killing_ people—"

The last thing he needed was a lecture on morality by Harry-bleeding-Potter. Why did he get into this conversation anyway?

"I don't!" he snapped.

Potter stared at him incredulously, his face twisting in anger. "You tried to kill—"

"I know!" he said, his voice cracking. "I know what I tried to do—I—I didn't want to—" He closed his mouth immediately. One rule—don't show weakness.

"Snape did it for you," said Potter hatefully. "Your lovely Mum made him make the Unbreakable Vow—and now that filthy traitor is—what?"

"Don't talk about my mother, Potter!" he screamed, leaping suddenly to his feet, fuming. "What the hell would you have done? You all think you're so goddamn high and mighty—'come to the right side, Draco'—you don't know what it's like—it's kill or be killed. He threatened to kill my family! What would you have done? I'm not about to let her die because of my—my weakness—" He did kill her. She was gone. He had failed, in so many ways.

"Mercy isn't weakness," said Potter quietly. He was staring at him intensely with his brilliant green eyes.

"Murder—or be murdered, Potter?" he said, his voice shaking. "What would you have done?"

Potter was suddenly very quiet. The fury twisted onto his face seemed to falter slightly, and he stared at him as though he had never seen him before—looking right through him at something else entirely. He swallowed, his voice quiet but resolved.

"I—I would have done what I had to do."

000

"Eww," said Ron, lifting up the rumpled covers on Dudley's bed. As suspected, there was a layer of what looked like cookie crumbs all over the cartoon printed sheets. "He really is a fat slob, isn't he?"

"Yeah…" said Hermione, letting out an uneasy chuckle as Ron Scourgified the bed. "It's sort of stupid for us to split up unevenly, don't you think?" she blurted out quickly.

"Huh?" he asked stupidly. He didn't get it. He never got it. Would he ever?

"You know, Ron," she said, swallowing nervously. "There's a—a fold up cot under the bed. Maybe…it would be a little less crowded if you stayed here…"

She saw the rather nervous look on his face, and immediately began babbling. "I mean, of course, maybe it would be nice if we could just talk for awhile…not anything…" she trailed off.

" 'Mione," he said slowly. "You're a girl…"

Hermione smiled sorrowfully. "So you noticed?"

"I shouldn't…Harry and Malfoy in there—I don't really trust him, you know?" said Ron lamely. He shuffled nervously towards the door. "Well, goodnight…" he said. He stepped through the door, closing it almost all the way behind him. Hermione sank down onto the bed.

Ron popped his head in again, still holding the doorknob. "We're—we're still friends right?"

She smiled broadly, her eyes over-bright. "Always," she said softly. "Nothing could ever change that."

"OK," said Ron, looking relieved. "Goodnight, 'Mione." He closed the door.

"Night," she murmured. He just didn't get it. He acted like a child. She rolled over and faced the wall, wrapping the sheet around her like a protective cocoon.

At that moment she realized that Ron, despite his potential intentions, was six years too late to be anything more than just a friend. And she knew that she couldn't just wait around forever for him to grow up, because…it just hurt too much.

And, at that moment, she began to cry.

000

Draco rolled over onto his other side, but much to his dismay, he found it was just as uncomfortable to have a hard wooden floor pressing on your left shoulder as it was to have a hard wooden floor pressing onto your right shoulder.

He had been having trouble sleeping—every time he closed his eyes, his vision was assaulted by nightmares of merciless red eyes, frozen white hands, and a midnight blue cloak that slowly fluttered onto the floor and lay deathly still, never to move again.

He kept his eyes shut anyway. At least that way, he could pretend that he wasn't actually lying on Harry Potter's floor, inhaling layers of dust and listening to Weasley's intolerable snoring. Forget the wand, he thought irritably, if Weasley didn't shut the hell up within the next two minutes or so he was going to leap up and strangle him with his bare hands. Maybe that would stop the god awful noise.

He heard a soft scratching at the window pane and sat bolt upright, only to remember that it was probably just a stupid owl. When had he gotten so jumpy? Weasley sat up as well, looking dazed. He turned his befuddled gaze to Potter, who was sitting cross legged on the bed, glasses on, staring at the window.

"Are the spiders attacking?" demanded a confused Weasley groggily.

"No, the spiders are not attacking, Ron," replied Potter reassuringly. Weasley didn't seem to notice; he collapsed backwards and fell back asleep. Potter smiled in amusement, and went back to staring out the window.

"What—" began Draco, but Potter held up a finger to his lips for silence, and then pointed out the window. Draco followed his gaze, until he saw what Potter was looking at.

Dumbledore's pet phoenix—or at least it used to be. It was floating outside the window. What the hell was its name? Fickes? Dockes?

Potter opened the window with his wand and the phoenix flew in. It did a few slow, graceful loops around the room. Draco swatted hostilely at it as it neared his head. Dumbledore had hauled him into his office once (or twice) to request that he stop bullying first years, and the bird had flown in circles around his head, hooting like a barn owl. He really didn't like that bird very much. Finally, Potter raised his arm invitingly and the bird settled itself halfway up his shoulder.

"Hello, Fawkes," said Potter sadly. Fawkes. That was it. "What are you doing in a place like this?" The phoenix cooed softly and curved its long, swanlike neck so that its head rested on Potter's shoulder. "Yeah, I'm wondering that myself…"

What the hell? He talked to birds now? Harry Potter, the bloody Pet Psychic. Draco scoffed. He was probably just speculating.

"What's that ruddy bird doing here?" hissed Draco in a loud whisper.

"You know, I don't entirely know," said Potter merrily. He stroked the phoenix's scarlet head.

Draco frowned. Idiot. "Well, could you please get rid of it?"

Potter merely glared at him. "Fine," sighed Draco. "I don't care."

He rolled over and went back to sleep, leaving Potter to bond or mind meld or whatever the hell he was doing with that stupid red featherbag.

000

Hermione was the last down to the breakfast table in the morning, which irritated her slightly. She was usually an early riser. The Dursleys had disappeared from the house, and as she poured herself some coffee, Ron had informed her that they were "eating out to avoid the terrifying freaks in their living room, particularly the blond one."

Harry cooked them all breakfast. It was actually a pretty good breakfast, and Harry seemed to know his way around the kitchen remarkably well. Hermione suspected this was not the first, nor even the fiftieth meal he had made in the kitchen at Number 4 Privet Drive. When they finished, Harry had gotten halfway through detail cleaning the entire kitchen, perhaps instinctually, before Ron stopped him and reminded him that he had a wand, underage or not. A somewhat embarrassed Harry quickly cleaned the rest of the kitchen with a tap of his wand.

"What's that?" asked Hermione, staring quizzically at the bulky fabric bag in the middle of the table.

"Present from a friend," said Harry, smiling mischievously.

"Who?" she asked curiously. She reached forward and peeled away the layer or scarlet fabric, gasping at what she saw inside. Harry pulled a fierce looking silver sword studded with blood-red rubies off the top of the pile and held it aloft, examining it casually as it glittered in the air. He lifted a phoenix feather in his other hand and handed it to Hermione.

"Like they always say," he said, grinning. "He's not as gone as we might think."

The sword was impressive—and so was the phoenix feather, but by far the most impressive of Fawkes's gift was the ornately carved wooden chest resting on the bed of scarlet fabric.

Ron and Harry seemed more interested in the sword, and Malfoy seemed more interested in obsessively examining his coffee to make sure it wasn't filthy or poisoned, but Hermione's gaze was fixed on the box, her jaw slightly agape.

The chest was small, about a foot wide, and a little deeper than it was tall. The wood was dark, stained cherry. Two images were on the front, painted in exquisite, colorful detail. The first was a robed man, holding a flask of potion in his right hand and pointing with his left. The obvious image of the Philosopher, the classical Alchemical Sorcerer. The second image was a winged staff, with two identical serpents curled around it.

Hermione's hands trembled with excitement as she grasped the box, running her fingers thoughtfully over its painted surface. This was—impossible. She couldn't he staring at what she thought she was staring at. It was all at her fingertips. But then again—it made some sense. After all…hadn't Dumbledore...

Hands quivering, she pushed open the lid, which creaked in protest. Inside there were stacks of yellowed parchment, covering in alchemical symbols and tiny, cramped writing. Pages and pages of secrets. A lifetime of painstaking research. She almost fainted, right there on the spot.

She suddenly became aware that everyone was staring at her rather quizzically, the initial thrill of the sword having apparently worn off.

"What's with the box?" asked Ron. "That thing Dumbledore's too?"

"This…" said Hermione finally, running her finger across the Latin text at the foremost edge. "Is the luckiest we've been in a long, long time."

"Why?" asked Ron stupidly. "What is it?"

"Not what—" said Hermione emphatically. "_Who_." Ron blinked. Harry looked bewildered as well. Malfoy looked mildly interested, but he was currently wandering around the kitchen, searching for more caffeine.

"This box," she said, barely able to contain the excitement in her voice. "The Philosopher and the flask. The Winged Caduceus of Mercurius." More blank stares. "These figures are typically associated with the 14th Century manuscript of Abraham the Jew. Look at this text."

Her Latin was a little rusty, considering she had gotten most of it second hand from ancient history books, but she traced the golden text of the chest's engravings with an idle finger.

"_One day you will see in it that which no other man will be able to see_," she read aloud. "The quest for knowledge. These are his secrets. He—he must have entrusted them to Dumbledore before he died. Who better, after all…"

They still didn't get it. Oh, it was frustrating. It was _always_ like this. This subject was familiar to her—which didn't make it much different from every other subject on earth—but this one was _slightly_ different. She had read every book in the library on it first year (even the ones in the Restricted Section), while trying to solve the mystery of the Sorcerer's Stone.

"Don't you get it?" she breathed, pulling the box towards her. "This box once belonged to Nicolas Flamel."

000

**AN:** Mwha ha ha. I know that RHr is by far the largest and most definite ship in the Harry Potter fleet, so I took great joy in blowing a hole in the starboard side with a cannon. Then, I cackled as I watched it sink to the briny depths of the ocean. I won't mind the RHr ship when it finally solidifies in the books (even more, I'm talking kissing here) —but right now, I am writing DMHG, and thus RHr must die. I always find it amusing in DMHG fics when Ron and Hermione fall apart because Ron is evil or a traitor of something. Ron isn't evil. Ron is just…Ron. And that's the perfect thing to ruin the RHr relationship.

**To my reviewers:**

**laughingred:** Yeah…I know a lot of people have that "I'm busy working on a novel!" thing going on…but I don't have a novel. I don't spend all my time working on fanfic, hehe. I'm kind of writing and drawing a webcomic, but I'm not sure what I want to do with it. So take heart! And thank you.

**qwertyuiopasdfghjklzxcvbnm**: I totally think Harry is a Horcrux. That was the first thing I thought when I read book six. I'm not sure if I'm going to use it in my story or not. It makes sense though. First—Dumbledore said he waited for "big" kills when making the Horcruxes. What's bigger than the boy who could potentially grow up and kill him? Second—the transfer of powers. Parselmouth! A piece of his soul would probably do that pretty succinctly. Third—the whole book five thing about "the dormant snake rising within him" and all the hatred for Dumbledore, etc. Fourth—before Voldemort possessed him at the end of book five, he was totally fine with Harry being murdered. After the possession, he ordered that Harry not be harmed (Snape mentioned this, didn't he?). Fifth—now Harry is definitely the key to defeating him. He could destroy the piece of soul, because "it can't bear to reside in him, blah, blah, blah, because he's so full of happy, sunshiney love." And according to Dumbledore, "Love" is the key to victory. So there. Whew. I could ramble on this forever, but I'll restrain myself.

**FizzingWhizbeez**: Yes, I'm not alone in the Regulus theory, but I thought of it by myself, I swear. And the diary was original too, but I have no idea where that came from.

**Yumiko Kaze:** That is a pretty awesome theory. I would be so happy if Sirius came back! I don't think I can use it in my story though, b/c if Sirius came back they wouldn't need Draco, and then how could Hermione and Draco snog? The snogging is integral to the plot! Hehe. Thanks for the offer though!

Thanks to everyone who reviewed! I love you!

**PS:** Next stop—Diagon Alley and the Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes. I got too busy with angst in this chapter, and it got rather long rather quickly. I've been trying to keep the chapters at 10 pages or so. Also (probably) coming in the next chapter, leather pants. Mmm…pants…

**PPS:** I had fun writing the "Malfoy threatens the Dursleys" scene. I hope everybody enjoyed it, lol.


	6. Blood Lines

_Draco Malfoy was standing in the kitchen of Malfoy Manor, watching intently as his grandmother prepared cookies. Being that he was only six, he was still rather short and could barely see her from underneath the expansive edge of the marble countertop. _

_Dobby prepared most of the food for the Malfoy family, but when his Grandmother came to visit, she would create elaborate cakes and cookies with her wand. She seemed to enjoy it, though Draco did not understand why. He didn't care either. He liked those cookies. They were much better than his mother's cookies. _

"_Draco?" asked his Grandmother in her rasping, wheezy voice. A few strands of frazzled, white hair had fallen out of her bun, and they billowed as she spoke. "What are you doing inside? Why aren't you outside on your broomstick?"_

"_I lost my Quaffle," said Draco, shrugging and eyeing the cookies hungrily. "Father will get me a new one tomorrow."_

"_And now you came in just in time to get fresh cookies?" asked his Grandmother, smiling knowingly. "What a fine coincidence."_

"_Yes," said Draco, still rather focused on the cookies. "Can I have one?" He held out his hand expectantly. His grandmother lifted up a plate of cookies and placed them on the table. Draco clambered up into one of the chairs and began munching on them._

"_You know what your Grandfather used to say to me?" said his Grandmother wistfully. "'There is no coincidence, Mariette. There is only magic. It protects us and guides us. That is where our power comes from, why _we_ are so much greater than all other creatures who walk the Earth.' " She loving stroked Draco's silvery blond head. "You see Draco," she said, pointing to the breast of his shirt, over his heart. "Magic is in your blood, inside of you."_

_Draco mostly ignored her, still happily eating the cookies. He was fairly sure that magic came from wands, but he didn't think it would be wise to correct the old woman, especially since it was far simpler to keep his mouth shut and full of chocolate cookies._

_His Grandmother smiled. "Magic has a way of guiding you, even when you yourself do not know the way. There are no coincidences, Draco. Everything happens for a reason."_

000

They were walking down the busy streets of Muggle London, pushing their way through throngs of people. Hermione, Ron, and Harry were wearing Muggle clothes, so they blended in quite well. Malfoy on the other hand, was dressed in his usual attire, which was drawing him quite a few odd looks from passersby.

He was wearing a sweeping black cloak, dragon hide boots, and a silver studded belt. His cloak was trimmed in silver, and there was an ornate, carved silver pin clasping his cloak together at the throat. He would have looked quite stylish on the streets of Diagon Alley, but the Leaky Cauldron was several blocks away, and his attire gave off the airs of someone who was going off to the coast to battle invading hordes of Normans in the Middle Ages. Also, his outfit had been completely trashed by his attack and subsequent escape from the Death Eaters last week.

It was not wise for someone who was trying to hide from a large group of killers to stand out in a crowd. As they walked, Hermione noticed Malfoy seemed to be becoming keenly aware of the deficiencies of his attire as well. In addition to the oddities of his appearance, there was a long, slitted tear running up his sleeve. He was nervously trying to hide something on his forearm, but his sleeve kept flapping open…

"Clothes," said Hermione suddenly.

"What?" asked Ron in confusion.

"We ought to buy clothes," she said quickly. "Muggle clothes. So we blend in."

"But—we do blend—" argued Ron, but Hermione grabbed him and dragged him and Malfoy into the nearest Muggle clothing shop.

"Harry needs a better belt," she said matter-of-factly. She pointed to Harry's belt, which formerly belonged to Dudley the Boy-Blimp and only fit his waist because he had punched about six extra holes in it with a screwdriver. "If he's going to rush around with that thing on it."

Godric Gryffindor's blade, under a Disillusioment Charm of course, was strapped to Harry's waist as if he were a mythical hero. She shooed Harry and Ron off to the front corner of the store, leaving her alone with Malfoy.

"Clothes?" he said. He folded his arms and stared at her, a smirk playing faintly upon his lips.

"Yes, clothes," said Hermione, her tone businesslike. "You—" She pushed Malfoy towards the back of the shop. "look like you were chewed up, partially digested, and spat back out by a Hungarian Horntail. People on the street are staring at you, and that's not the best thing in the world when you're on the run and trying to keep a low profile."

Malfoy opened his mouth to respond to this—probably with copious amount of sarcasm—but a young saleswoman strode quickly up to them, her hands clasped together expectantly.

"Can I help you?" she asked.

"Yes," said Hermione, her eyes glinting. She gestured towards Malfoy. "He needs an outfit."

000

Draco sat behind the curtain in the changing room, livid with rage. This was completely ridiculous. The stupid Muggle store worker woman had thrown a pile of clothes at him and manhandled him into this wretched little room, expecting him to strip down and actually _wear_ these Muggle rags.

Granger had threatened him with more bodily harm if he didn't "try them on," with all manner of haste. (Imagine, clothes that were made without individually measuring their future wearer. How the hell would they know if it fit or not? Stupid Muggles.)

"I'm not coming out," fumed Draco, refusing to look in the mirror.

"Oh, please, I'm sure it's not that bad," Granger huffed impatiently, tapping her foot. "Come on, Malfoy, we really don't have all day."

"I'm not trying on anything else, this is idiotic!" he said angrily from inside the booth.

"Fine!" said Granger irritatedly. "Then you're going to have to wear whatever the bloody hell you have on. Just come out here and we'll leave." Grumbling, he threw the curtain aside and stomped out, hating Granger even more. (If that was possible.)

000

Hermione had to clamp her jaw shut to keep from gawking. Draco Malfoy was wearing leather pants. The salesgirl obviously had a rather insane sense of style, but…an excellent one. In retrospect, she probably should have been suspicious when she looked at what the salesgirl was wearing—torn jeans, far too much black eyeliner, and neon green hair that would have made Tonks proud. Hermione had given her only two specifications—black, and long sleeved.

Malfoy stormed passed her, only pausing to glare spitefully like a toddler who has been forced into eating steamed vegetables. He was wearing a long sleeved black collared shirt, and a pair of black leather pants.

Hermione gaped, despite herself. Had he always looked like that? Though not quite as tall as Harry or Ron, he had grown up considerably over the summer. He was not so much thin and short, but tall and lean and muscular. Apparently, all those years of Quidditch had paid off. And—he was wearing leather pants.

Harry and Ron had found a suitable belt. They were standing at the counter when Malfoy stormed past. Harry and Ron gaped as well—though for a very different reason. Malfoy continued walking, without stopping, until he had left the store. Ron and Harry immediately began snickering. Hermione sighed and paid for his clothes while he stood outside and sulked. Then, she began giggling as well.

000

"How much for this one?" asked Harry, pointing to a bottle of jet black dust. They were standing in the Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes, searching for supplies for their impending journey. They had decided it was best to stay on the move, given the circumstances.

"I told you, Harry," said Fred, sighing in exasperation. "Everything in the store—"

"Is absolutely free, for you," finished George, nodding in agreement. Harry looked embarrassed but placed the vial of Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder into his pocket.

Hermione watched as Malfoy sulked around the store, eyes roving over the colorful shelves. It was partially because of him that they were here—his idea to use the Weasley's products offensively was actually rather ingenious. However, when the news that Death Eaters had used their merchandise in a mission to assassinate their favorite professor had reached Fred and George, they had been offended on an extremely personal level. They glared hatefully at Malfoy as he passed near them.

"In fact," said Fred. "We would be deeply offended if all of you didn't take whatever you needed—"

"To do whatever you need to do," said George.

Malfoy approached a shelf and reached towards a package of Soothsayer Mints, but Fred and George immediately surrounded him, and Fred slapped his hand away with a rolled up stack of parchment before he could touch anything.

"Not for Death Eaters," said Fred in a voice one would use to scold a misbehaving puppy.

"Quite true," agreed George. "In fact, if not for Hermione's insistence that it would be quite dangerous for you to wait outside—"

"—which doesn't sound like a bad thing to me—" interjected Fred.

"—you would not be allowed on our premises at all," finished George. "So—"

"—you're not allowed to buy anything—"

"—or touch anything—"

"—actually don't _look_ at anything either, it's quite offensive."

They finished, and their identical faces split into merry grins. "Cheers."

"Enjoy your shopping."

Muttering angrily and scowling, (which he seem to be becoming quite talented at lately) Malfoy shoved his hands into his pockets and skulked off to the back of the store. Hermione felt a pang of inexplicable guilt. They were being _awfully_ hard on him. He wasn't really evil, she reflected uncomfortably, just...complicated. He lived in a world with a fair few more nuances and complexities than someone like Ron could ever possibly hope to come to terms with. OK, _maybe_ he was a tad bit evil.

Fred and George whirled around and continued chattering as if nothing had happened.

"Here try this—" said George, offering something that looked like a glowing blue cube to Harry. "Just developed it, you know."

"What is it?" asked Ron, peering over Harry's shoulder as the dark haired boy placed the box into his hand and examined it.

"Well, it's actually rather nifty," said Fred, "you see—" Something began shrieking and flashing in from inside the pocket of George's robes. The twins sighed audibly.

"I do believe we forgot to say no stealing—" said Fred, frowning.

"That was an oversight," said George. He pulled the Sneakoscope out of his pocket and pressed the top, immediately stopping the noise. The both craned their necks around one of the long aisles and looked at the end, where Malfoy was still examining things in a would-be-casual stance. He was in front of a large stack of neon pink boxes. He picked one up and peered inside.

"That's not a good idea," said Fred, making a tutting noise with his tongue.

"Very true," agreed George emphatically. "Honestly, if someone were just to say the proper incantation while he was holding that thing—"

"Which is _SOMNIUM!_ by the way…" said Fred loudly, grinning wickedly.

"The results could be quite entertaining."

000

Draco peered into the little pink box. There was a small quantity of glowing, electric pink mist floating inside, resting on the bottom and swirling like thick, London fog as he shook the box. He stared at it curiously, mostly because he was extremely bored and had nothing better to do.

He thought he heard someone shout something from the front of the store, but he couldn't quite make out what they said. The pink mist suddenly shot out of the box and invaded his mouth and nostrils, shooting straight through into his head. It smelled sort of like a flowers, only over concentrated to the point of inducing nausea—sort of the way Pansy wore her perfume. He gasped as the shop suddenly faded away, and was replaced by a very strange scene.

The smell of salt and breezy sea air assaulted his senses. He was standing on the bowsprit of a ship, which was tossing violently in choppy waves. Ocean spray splattered against his face, wind whipped through his blond hair, and his silky black dress whipped behind him as the ship rose and fell—HIS DRESS?

He looked down at his clothes in horror. What the hell was he doing in a _dress_? The leather pants were bad enough, considering he was fairly sure they had been made out of Muggle "cow" beast or something of the like. He didn't have time to ponder this for long however, because he was roughly grabbed and spun around, his shoulders pinned down to the wooden railing.

A large, muscular man with a flowing mane of wavy brown hair had him pinned down, their bodies pressed together in a very suggestive way. His brown eyes were large and soulful, and his lacy white shirt was open halfway down his torso, revealing a tan, broad shouldered, muscular body.

"AHH!" yelled Draco furiously. "GET THE HELL OFF OF ME!" The man ignored his protests.

"Oh, my sweet Dracohhw," said the man, pronouncing Draco's name wrong in a deep, raspy voice. He had a thick, over-exaggerated foreign accent. "Do not spurn my love! The fire between us burns with such passion! Such heat! Love me, my sweet, love me, and I'll take you away from all of your worries…" He bowed his thick neck, down, as if to kiss Draco's neck.

"AUGH!" screamed Draco. "GET OFF ME YOU GIT! ARE YOU INSANE?" He flailed wildly, but he found his only weapon was the lacey white fan clutched within his gloved hand. He promptly smacked the man across the face with it, and wriggled free of his grasp. The man clutched his stinging cheek, smiling, his eyes alight.

"I love your fire!" he growled passionately. "Kiss me! I must have you now!" He lunged towards Draco, who immediately fled, screaming bloody murder, as he was chased across the deck of the ship.

000

Hermione sighed. They were crowded over Malfoy, who was lying on the floor of the Weasley's shop.

"Serves him right," said Fred cheerily.

"Our testers had said these little things are quite fun—if used properly that is," said George, shaking his head.

"Aren't they for _girls_?" asked Ron, looking at Malfoy and snickering.

"Yes," said Fred. "Yes, they most definitely are."

"Unless you're into that sort of thing—" added George.

"Which we have nothing against," clarified Fred.

"He certainly doesn't look like he's having a very good time of it," observed Harry, tilting his head and staring at Malfoy. He really didn't seem to be happy, noticed Hermione. He was on the floor, rolling around and flailing his arms wildly, and screaming as if he were being assaulted by a pack of rabid wolves.

They all stood idly by and observed this phenomenon in amusement for awhile, until Hermione interrupted.

"_Really_," she said in exasperation, stamping her foot. "Isn't this a little bit mean?" Ron blinked at her.

"Define 'mean,' " he said slowly, smiling innocently.

Hermione frowned, and pointed her wand at Malfoy. "_Finite Incantatem_." He immediately stopped yelling and sat bolt upright, panting and looking deeply traumatized.

"Aww," said the rest of the group in disappointment. They proceeded to wander away. Malfoy let out a stream of expletives, and Hermione took that as her cue to walk away.

000

Their next stop was Gringotts. Money was definitely an object. Hermione was carrying some Muggle money in her pocket, but, as she gently reminded her companions while they ate lunch in the Leaky Cauldron, they would probably not be getting free room, board, and food for the rest of their journey.

"Key?" hissed a wizened looking goblin from his perch high on the countertop.

Harry fumbled through his pockets and finally extracted the key to his vault. The goblin took it and examined it carefully through narrowed eyes.

"Very well," he said, handing the key back to Harry with his long, spindly fingers. He turned his intense gaze towards Malfoy. "Ah…" he breathed. "Young Master Malfoy. What business draws you here, on this day?"

"I wish to make a withdrawal, Grypkik," said Malfoy, his tone casual, yet businesslike. Hermione raised an eyebrow. Did Goblin sentiments lie with Pureblooded families after all? It was convenient—they held most of the wealth in the community, and would therefore be the banks most valuable assets. And he knew Malfoy by appearance. _Honestly_.

They were escorted towards the back of the bank, and loaded into carts. As his unofficial-make-sure-he-doesn't-run-away-babysitter, Hermione went with Malfoy in one cart (which happened to be quite a bit larger and lined with velvet, whatever the hell that was about), and Harry and Ron went in another.

Malfoy's face remained expressionless as they flew wildly around bends along the darkened track. Hermione gripped the sides of the cart, feeling vaguely ill. She had never ridden down into the bowels of the bank before; her parents had always exchanged their Muggle money directly, upstairs at the counter. She felt like she was on a roller coaster. Finally, the cart screeched to a halt outside a pair of large ornately carved doors. Malfoy looked at her strangely, glancing appraisingly at her green-tinged face. He grabbed her hand and helped her as she climbed shakily out of the cart.

"Are you all right?" he asked her, cocking his head slightly.

"I'm fine," she said breathlessly, once her feet were thankfully back on solid ground. Malfoy was still holding her hand. They were both silent for a moment. Then suddenly, they both retracted their hands rather quickly. Hermione blushed, looking away at the vault doors. What the hell was _that_ about?

Were all vaults this big? She had nothing to compare it too, of course. The goblin who had been driving their cart hopped down and strode over to the doors. With the brush of a silver key and the stroke of a long, delicate finger, the doors slowly creaked open. Malfoy quickly strode in, apparently quite unimpressed by this phenomenon. Hermione followed behind him, her breath catching in her throat when the contents of the room met her eyes.

Bloody hell. No wonder Malfoy strutted around like he owned the school. He probably could own the school if he wanted to. He could buy it, along with several small islands. Or perhaps he could buy a moderately sized foreign country, the capital of which he could rename "Draconia" if he wanted to. The vault was at least two stories high, with large vaulted ceilings and two, rectangular rooms, full of centuries worth of gold, silver, precious gems, and strange treasures that nevertheless looked extremely valuable. Malfoy looked at the glittering stacks impassively. He snatched a small, drawstring bag from their goblin tour guide and disappeared into the second room.

Something in the corner of the room caught Hermione's eye. It was (what else?) several large bookcases, brimming with neatly stacked leather bound volumes of text. She immediately flocked over to it, skimming the spines with her fingertips. Dates and names were printed in tiny silver letters on the deep red covers, spanning all the way back to 1069, when Augustin Baleine Malfoy came to England from Northern France. She finally came to the very bottom of the shelf, her fingers brushing against two volumes at the very end of the shelf. _Lucius Edric Malfoy, son of Abraxas Malfoy and Cassiopeia Derron_ and directly next to it…_Draco Lucius Malfoy, son of Lucius Malfoy and Narcissa Black_. She lifted it quietly from the shelf and opened it. It was a short list of his grades throughout school, which she already knew weren't that astonishing, and his accomplishments—school prefect, Quidditch Seeker, Slytherin House.

The last page contained a very neat replica of his O.W.L. results, copied faithfully in flawless penmanship. She should probably not be snooping through his things, but she was too far in now, and much too curious to quit. She scanned down the page, gawking at it. O…O…O…E…E…O…E…O…O...E...O...E. How the _hell_ did he manage that? He had gotten as many OWL's as she had! Not nearly as many O's, but still—he had an Outstanding in Defense Against the Dark Arts! That was not fair at all! She had never, ever seen him study for anything, and she ought to know, considering she spent over half of her waking hours in the library…How had he managed…?

"I _test_ well," drawled a voice from behind her, causing her to whirl around in alarm. Malfoy stared at her evenly, a sneer adorning his pale face. He swiped the book out of her hands and tossed it violently back onto the shelf. "And I'll thank you to keep your hands off my things, Granger," he said, as he strode out of the vault. Face flushed, Hermione followed behind him.

000

They were leaving Diagon Alley, walking in a tight group as usual. Dumbledore's death seemed to have increased people's unease about going outside exponentially. Diagon Alley, and many of its shops, were practically deserted. Suddenly, Harry stiffened. He cursed under his breath, but continued walking as if nothing was wrong.

"What is it?" asked Ron nervously.

"We're being followed," said Harry in a low voice, barely moving his lips. Hermione's stomach twisted uncomfortably. From within her pocket, her hand tightened on her wand.

"Where?" she whispered fearfully, not turning her head.

"Across the street," said Malfoy, suddenly joining into the conversation. His gaze flitted behind them for a split second. "Both Carrows, Yaxley, Sernab—" He frowned. "Don't know the other two." Harry looked at him in surprise, though he barely turned his head.

"Duck into that alleyway," he said sharply. "_Now_." They all hurried to their left as smoothly as possible. Crouched low to the ground nearest to the street, Harry peered carefully around the edge of the building. He snapped his head back.

"I don't think we lost them," said Harry, his face somewhat paler than usual.

"Well, that's hard to believe," said Malfoy sarcastically, apparently unable to resist insulting Harry, regardless of the circumstances. "Your plan to throw ourselves into a dirty alleyway was genius. Absolutely _inspired_." Harry glared at him, as if considering whether or not to tell him off.

"Here," he said, thrusting Malfoy's wand into his hands. "They're probably here to kill you as well as us." Malfoy looked surprised for a moment, then nodded.

"We don't want to be cornered in here," said Harry wisely. "On the count of three, we go out together. Ready?" They all nodded in agreement.

"_One_…" As Hermione reflected on it, she knew that being in an alleyway with Death Eaters advancing on you was not an ideal location. Somehow, however, it felt right.

"_Two_…" She felt a sense of rightness, of absoluteness, shoulder to shoulder with her two best friends. No matter what the situation, this was exactly where she belonged. Together, until whatever end. And she wouldn't have it any other way.

"_Three_!" They flung themselves out of the alley, wands drawn, to find themselves completely surrounded.

000

Potter and Weasley had gotten pushed away from Draco. They were standing in front of Sally's Second Hand Robe Shop, fighting four against two. They were rather preoccupied in the conflict but seemed to have the upper hand. Draco didn't have much time to ponder this however, because he was quite busy fighting his own battle. Terrance Sernab, who was hulking, blond, and somewhat obsessed with the Cruciatus Curse, was towering over him, a crazed grin on his face.

"Young Malfoy," he snarled. "Rumors say you've turned traitor." Malfoy sidestepped as a jet of red light soared past him. Ah, well. At least he had his wand back.

"Well, they must be more than rumors, Sernab," he said softly. "Or you wouldn't be here trying to kill me."

"_Cru_—" Predictable as usual. Idiot.

"_Expelilaimus_!" yelled Draco, cutting him off. Sernab's wand flew in a smooth arc and landed in Draco's hand. He pointed his wand at him. "_Suffoco_!" Sernab sunk to the ground, gasping and choking until he lay sprawled on the ground, unconscious, but not dead.

Draco whirled around, his thoughts suddenly flying to…

000

Hermione was across the street from Malfoy, and even farther away from Harry and Ron, struggling desperately against a huge, dark haired wizard. She was standing in front of Ollivander's Wand Shop. Long since abandoned, the front of the shop was crumbling slowly from the sheer force of spells ricocheting off of it.

She tried everything she could think off, but there was just no logic to…well, violence. He was backing her into the wall.

He fired another curse at her. She jumped sideways, but lodged her foot in a freshly opened crack in the ground. She struggled, but was unable to free herself.

"_Petrificus_ _Totalus_!" she cried, but the Death Eater dove out of the way and skittered around behind her. She twisted around desperately her foot still trapped.

"_Stupe_—" she began.

"_Expelliarmus_!" countered the Death Eater. A large, angry cut appeared on her hand, and her wand flew from her hand. He leered at her as he advanced from behind. She flailed wildly as he grabbed her bleeding hand by the wrist, but froze as she felt the tip of his wand pressing against her head.

"I could draw this out," he hissed. "But I have other matters to attend to, and very little time to spare for such…entertainment."

So this was it. She was stuck, wandless, and everyone else seemed otherwise occupied. She looked above her, carefully observing the angle at which the wall was leaning. If someone hit it in just the right spot…the whole thing would probably come tumbling down.

The Death Eater began to utter a curse. "_Avad_—"

Fine. If that's the way it was going to be—she would be _damned_ if she didn't take this moron with her.

She thrashed suddenly, knocking them both backwards. She was still stuck, and landed as such. The Death Eater behind her slammed full force into the wall, which let out a groan of protest before the entire stone front of the shop fell forward with an almighty lurch. Hermione shut her eyes tightly.

Instead of feeling several tons of stone masonry shower all over her, she suddenly felt something blasting her ankle free. A voice screamed something, and she lurched forward through the air, landing heavily in someone's outstretched arms, her eyes still shut tightly. She opened her eyes, expecting to see Harry, or even Ron, but instead…

"Malfoy?" she gasped in disbelief. His pale face was contorted with rage.

"I suppose you think that was brave, don't you?" he said furiously.

"Malfoy—" she began, but he continued ranting.

"You Gryffindors are all alike! What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"Malfoy!" she interrupted again.

"For someone so smart, you are an idiot! You could have been killed! Why are you all so obsessed with heroics? I swear—"

"_Draco_!" she said loudly. He stopped, staring at her. She was still in his arms, her hands around his neck. "You—you just—you saved my life," she said, her voice a mixture of shock and confusion.

He gaped at her. Apparently, the very same thing had just dawned on him. He nearly dropped her, setting her roughly to her feet on the ground. "Yeah—I—I—" he stammered, stiffening. She was standing on her own, gazing at him. "Er—now we're square, I guess," he said nervously, staring pointedly at the ground.

Several loud cracks sounded as the remaining, conscious Death Eaters Disapperated. Harry and Ron were running towards them. They were still staring at each other, an uncomfortable silence building between them.

"You—got blood on my shirt," he said suddenly, examining his collar and scowling in irritation.

"I did not!" she protested, also staring at his collar and frowning. "_You_ got blood on you shirt." She pointed to a cut on his cheek, which was dripping a small amount of blood down onto his neck. Then she looked at the cut on her own hand. "OK," she agreed. "I may have gotten a tiny amount of blood on your shirt. But who cares anyway? It's a black shirt. Just clean it." She turned and raced off towards Harry and Ron, still not sure she was going to be able to process what just happened.

000

Draco stared in surprise at the front of his shirt. Hermio—er—the Mudblood had dripped her filthy blood, the most impure part of her, all over his collar. He could still see a stream of it running down his neck.

She had been right though. There was a cut on his face that was trickling down into his collar as well. He stared at both streams—his centuries old Pureblood and her impure, filthy Muggle blood.

He marveled silently, because quite honestly, he couldn't for the life of him tell the difference between the two.

000

**AN:** Wheeeeee! I'm sorry this chapter was sort of fluffy. I notice a lot of reviewers are getting anxious for the romance to bloom. I'm sorry! I'm trying to be realistic here. They're enemies. Things have to brew slowly. (There were a few things in this chapter, right?) They're not just going to fall into each other's arms and start kissing! …Until next chapter that is. Whoops! Was that a spoiler? Dreadfully sorry. Hehehe.

My sister told me that the fantasy box was very, very sick, but also very funny. I hope you guys agree, lol. It's canon! Those things were totally in book 6, with the horny pirate and everything.

**A note about Draco's OWL's:** I always thought he was smart but never applied himself or whatever. I know people (mostly guys) who never study or do homework, but miraculously do amazing on standardized testing…and it's annoying! But it happens. So that's how I see Draco's brain. So..there…


	7. Pride and Prejudice

"_Passion, it lies in all of us, sleeping, waiting…and though unwanted, unbidden…it will stir, open its jaws and howl. It speaks to us—guides us—passion rules us all, and we obey. What other choice do we have? Passion is the source of our finest moments. The joy of love, the clarity of hatred and the ecstasy of grief. It hurts sometimes more than we can bear. If we could live without passion maybe we'd know some kind of peace…but we would be hollow—empty rooms, shuttered and dank. Without passion we'd be truly dead." – Angel, BtVS_ 000 

"It's freezing in here," complained Ron, wrapping his arms around his chest.

"It's the air conditioning, Ron," offered Hermione, still rifling through Flamel's box.

"Air _conditioning_?" grumbled Ron. "Conditioning for what? Living on the sun?" Hermione rolled her eyes and ignored him.

They had decided to take the train out of the country. It was the Muggle train, but it was efficient enough, and they all agreed that it was best to keep moving. Hermione had suggested the International Floo Network, considering none of them had ever been to Albania and the probability of splinching was very high.

Harry had flatly refused to go anywhere near the Ministry, let alone enlist their aid for two very important reasons. First off, he believed everyone in the Ministry was a stupid git (except for Mr. Weasley, of course). Second, the Ministry was probably full of Death Eater spies. So, the train it was. The four of them sat in a private compartment. Harry and Ron were playing Exploding Snap (courtesy of Fred and George) and Malfoy was sitting in stony silence.

Hermione flipped open the diary and absently placed Malfoy's hand on it, trying desperately to ignore the blush rising in her cheeks as she touched his hand again. She had hoped that it would be easier to decipher the journal with Flamel's notes, but it was proving even more complicated with the vast new influx of information. She splayed the notes all over her lap and began reading, muttering aloud.

"The First Key is that which opens …hmm…this Stone has a bright glittering: it contains a Spirit of a sublime original; it is the Sea of the Wise, in which they angle for their mysterious Fish." She sighed. "No…wait…Pisces—or Aquarius? Bugger all…"

She closed her eyes for a moment and looked away from the diary, rubbing her eyes. "Harry…you were in Divination, do you remember if the astrological signs of the ocean will be in their seventh house before the summer solstice?"

Harry looked at her in alarm, quite taken aback that she would be asking him an actual fact. For one thing, she was apparently supposed to know everything, and for another, he probably felt that he should only be consulted as an authority in matters involving life or death last minute decisions. Ron gave her an equally glazed, slack jawed expression.

Malfoy snickered. "All I heard was blah, blah, blah, Sea, blah, blah, blah, Fish…" he said, though no one had asked for his opinion anyway.

Ron immediately started laughing at this, and even Harry chuckled. After a moment, Ron suddenly stopped laughing, and scowled at Malfoy quite defensively, obviously very upset that he had laughed at a joke that Malfoy told, and equally upset that Malfoy had a sense of humor that did not involve the sadistic torture of Muggles.

"Shut up, Malfoy," said Ron, folding his arms sulkily. Malfoy rolled his eyes and went back to staring out the window.

000

"I'm hungry," Weasley complained, after a pause.

"I think there was a food stand at the other end of the train," offered Potter. They both stood up, and began moving towards the door. Draco suddenly snapped his head around and stared at Potter very intently, his eyes uncertain. He folded his hands on his lap, indicating in a very non-threatening manner that he was not going to reach for the wand in his pocket at any time soon. Weasley looked at him, obviously missing the point.

"Fine," Weasley said exasperatedly. "I _guess_ you can have some candy."

Though he was only confused for a moment, Draco gave him his best "are you insane?" look, his lip curling. Weasley was appropriately irritated by this and walked out of the compartment. Potter followed behind him, but not before pausing for a moment in the doorway.

"You can keep your wand, Malfoy," he said evenly. "I don't care. Unless of course, you _want_ me to keep it for you because you think you might accidentally light your shirt on fire or something..." Potter smirked at him.

"Screw you, Potter," he retorted instantly.

"Thought so," said Potter, shutting the door behind him. He was alone in the compartment with Granger again, but she was deeply involved in the diary, and seemed to be doing her best to ignore his presence.

He stared at her, for sometime, his thoughts wandering into strange places.

000

Draco Malfoy was a prat.

He was staring at her again. Well—he _was_ staring at her—now he was looking pointedly out the window. What was he staring at? Probably thinking of creative new ways to murder her and say it was an accident.

He was infuriating, and his gaze—it—it unnerved her just a little but. She usually knew what people were thinking or feeling. She was remarkably intuitive, but she had _no_ idea what he was thinking. He was…complicated. Whatever was going on behind those piercing gray eyes, she couldn't tell. He was silent. That was what disturbed her.

He was such an enigma. She thought she understood him—he was a bigoted, shallow, bullying prat. He swaggered around the halls, and people dove out of his way, and that was the way he liked it.

Over the past few days, though, she had seen that—_maybe_—however unlikely—there was a little more to him than she thought. She didn't know whether that upset her or intrigued her. Maybe both. Did she even _want_ to know more about him?

Harry and Ron's gut reaction phrase, "He's evil," was equally as shallow. He was a person, still quite young, and he hadn't committed any real atrocities yet. He wasn't a monster like Voldemort, or many of those who served him. But…there was a darkness in him. He had grown up in a world that she didn't even know existed until six years ago, and the part of it he lived in not only tolerated darkness, it thrived on it. He was just doing what he had learned to do. That didn't exactly excuse his behavior—but it did complicate things.

And then there were the events that had transgressed just a few hours ago. He had _saved_ her _life_. Why? Even though he was in her debt, he could have easily let her die. He actually went out of his way to save her—even though she was the type of person that his family had been telling him was worthless for the past seventeen years.

She couldn't properly wrap her head around it. Perhaps she was afraid if she did, she would realize something about him she didn't want to. She went back to concentrating on the diary.

000

Draco Malfoy was obsessed.

He had always been, he realized, but he wasn't sure exactly what that meant. Granger was deeply absorbed in the Black diary. He was next to her again—out of necessity of course—and his hand was resting on the diary in her lap.

He watched her critically. He was used to staring into the back of that bushy brown head in every class he shared with her. He hated her—or he thought he did. He didn't really have words for it. He had wasted a lot of his time over the years thinking about her. He had always assumed it was because he hated her—the way one constantly dwells upon their mortal enemies and their blood boils because of it—but lately he suspected it was something else.

It wasn't hate exactly—and it certainly couldn't be _anything_ else—it was just—there. And it wasn't even on purpose. Her face just…popped into his head. There weren't any emotions at all attached to her face in his mind—not as far as he could tell. Except hatred. (And maybe jealousy, but that didn't make sense either. He had everything and she had nothing. She _was_ nothing, wasn't she?)

When his father railed off about Mudbloods—Granger popped into his head. His failing grades first and second year were obviously Granger's fault. He saw her hand waving frantically in his head every time he thought about class. He watched Muggles flailing in the air during the Quidditch World Cup—and there was Granger, the first thing to pop into his head. Granger. Granger. Granger. It was enough to drive him slowly insane.

Unlike most people, who dove out of the way when he swaggered down the hall, Granger merely glared at him, arms folded defiantly. She wasn't intimidated by him in the least. Anyone else—even Weasley without the company of his better halves, showed him an appropriate amount of respect. It seemed she was always in his face, telling him off without the slightest inhibition. At first this had amused him greatly—she was just a worthless Mudblood after all—but _he_ had been somewhat intimidated by her presence ever since that incident third year when she—well…his cheek stung for hours afterward. And Crabbe and Goyle had been standing right there. Right there next to him! And she _still_ slapped him across the face!

He couldn't explain it at all. She noticed he was staring at her and raised an eyebrow quizzically. He quickly turned away and stared out the window of the train, watching as the English countryside whizzed past.

Why had he saved her life? It was an insane thing to do—the kind of self-righteous idiocy that he despised in people like Potter. He couldn't recall any conscious, coherent thought when he saw that she was in danger. He just…reacted. Did that mean his _instincts_ were to save the Mudblood? That was just…insane. He was going insane.

Draco had always assumed Granger was filth, as he had been instructed his entire life, but he was quickly finding that assumptions were fleeting, unreliable things, and the more he looked to them for reassurance, the quicker they evaporated. He felt lost. He was sitting in a Muggle train compartment with Hermione Granger, a Mudblood, and supposedly one of his least favorite people, leaving behind everything that remotely resembled familiar territory.

Hermione wasn't like anyone else he knew. She _knew_ things. When she glared out at him through those narrow brown eyes of her, he sometimes felt as though she was staring right through him. And he _knew_ she wasn't reading his thoughts—she was reading _him_. Sizing him up, and probably deciding that she wasn't terribly impressed with what she saw. SHE WAS SUPPOSED TO BE IMPRESSED. Anyway, most girls in school did not have the capacity to do that. Pansy, for example, certainly didn't. And Draco was quite sure that she didn't fully comprehend just exactly what it was Draco was doing to elicit those doe-eyed looks of admiration for her—how dark it was, how monstrous.

And, he was quickly coming to the most unthinkable, horrible conclusion he had ever dared to imagine. Granger probably was probably aware of more of him right now than anyone else in the world, and she thought he was disgusting. That was quite unfortunate. He would indeed appreciate some goddamn assistance right now—but—not from _her_, dammit! She was the _problem_. She was a Mudblood. And she was stubborn. And annoying. And a stupid know-it-all. And her very existence went against everything his family had ever taught him. And she was annoying. Did he mention that already?

The entire thing was actually making him rather angry. The Mudblood had absolutely no place being inside his head, no matter what the circumstances. She had no right to judge him. She was probably judging him right now, that stupid bint.

000

Hermione almost dropped the diary. Malfoy had his hand on her thigh. He had just—put it there. Not low enough to qualify as a reassuring, androgynous reassurance pat (why the hell would Malfoy be doing that anyway?), but just barely high enough to qualify as a place a boy should not be touching you—at least not until you had been dating for awhile. His hand was not on the diary. It was _on_ her _leg_.

That wasn't even the real problem. The problem was that his hand was causing intense warm shivers to dance across her skin, and that was simply not right. It was powerful, unfamiliar and _extremely_ distracting. She squirmed, inhaling sharply.

She could have reacted to this in any number of ways, but instead she went ahead and rapped his knuckles with the journal like a crazed, ruler wielding Catholic school nun. Malfoy withdrew his hand and scowled like the spoiled child that he was, obviously not pleased. Hermione had the vague idea that as a privileged, wealthy son, he was used to getting things that he wanted, and now he looked distinctly miffed. But what the bloody hell did he _want_? Was this some kind of weird plan to mock her? Jackass.

She glared at him. "What are you doing?"

"Nothing," he replied in almost a pout, clutching his hand. "Why did you smack me?"

"Why were you touching me, you git?" she countered, incredulous.

"I was not," he said.

She opened her mouth in protest. "You were too."

"Was not."

"Were too—arg!" she frowned. "This is ridiculous! Don't touch me."

"You're always grabbing my hand," he pointed out indignantly. She thought he hated that.

"I need it to read the diary, you ponce!" she replied hotly. Ooh, he was so, infuriating. They both fell silent. Hermione was fuming. Malfoy looked moodily out the window. Oh _where_ were Harry and Ron with that bloody food?

000

"That's Dark Magic, you know," said Draco, pointing towards the paper she was holding. One of Flamel's notes and its corresponding clues in the diary, it was covered in symbols and words that were all too familiar to Draco.

"It's not Dark Magic," she said stubbornly. "It's just…old magic."

"Of course Dark Magic is old," he said icily. "It's primitive and powerful. Why do you think the old families practice it? It's a status symbol—a pure form of magic that others aren't privileged to wield."

Granger looked irritated. "Oh, don't start with your Pureblooded nonsense," she snapped, but she looked uncertain for a fleeting second. He was right after all. Though not everything in the diary or the box was like it, that particular spell she was holding could easily qualify as Dark Magic.

"You should talk, Granger," he drawled, sneering. "What would your dear little friends say if they saw you practicing the Dark Arts?"

"I don't practice the Dark Arts," she said haughtily.

"Of course not," he smirked superiorly. She didn't, but he was having fun pressing her buttons. He searched his memory for something else that would annoy her. "I wouldn't be in this mess if it weren't that stupid house-elf," he said, grinning slyly.

"You're right," she said, temper flaring. "You'd probably be dead."

"Ouch, touched a sensitive spot there, Granger?" he sneered. "Oh, that's right—Hermione Granger, champion of repressed vermin everywhere." She looked livid and he continued, pressing his advantage. He didn't even know why he was still talking. It seemed like a very bad idea. "What was that stupid thing? Spew?"

"S-P-E-W," she hissed through gritted teeth. "And shut up. I wouldn't expect you to understand—or care about anyone other than yourself."

That he didn't like. That wasn't true. She didn't know him. She had no idea what he felt. She still had her…his own temper flared, and he started to lose his advantage in the direction of the conversation.

"You're just like Potter," he hissed. "You think you're better than everyone else—so obsessed with doing the right thing."

"Do you even know what the right thing is, Malfoy?" she said furiously. "Because I've never seen evidence that you've remotely explored the concept!"

"You don't know _anything_ about me!"

"What's there to know? You're a selfish, spoiled brat, and you'd probably leave us right now if it wasn't for the Death Eaters after your blood—"

"At least I don't have to go running to my stupid little friends every time—"

"At least I _have_ friends, what do you call those people you hang around with—"

"My friends are human at least," he retorted, matching her volume. "You run about with werewolves and half-breeds and house-elves and all other manner of low creatures. It's absolutely disgusting—"

That was it, he realized. It didn't matter how many times he called her Mudblood—the minute he insulted those she cared about, her patience broke. He knew this, because at that moment her hand was flying towards his face in a very familiar arch. He caught her hand deftly, a dull slapping noise resonating as his hand wrapped around her wrist. Years as a Seeker had vastly honed his reflexes. His only regret was that he had not been this prepared last time she had attempted—and succeeded—in slapping him across the face.

"You are disgusting," she said, her voice an angry hiss. He had not let go of her hand, predicting, perhaps rightly, that she might have another go at his face if he gave her the opportunity.

000

"I _hate_ you," she said heatedly.

"I hate _you_," he countered, his voice equally as spiteful.

They stared at each other, both seething with anger, searching each other's faces for some sign of well—anything. A way to make sense of all this mess. His steely grey eyes bored into her brown ones. She glared back at him with equal intensity. For what seemed like eternity, neither of them moved. They sat in absolute silence, until Hermione felt that she might suffocate from the weight and intensity of the tension mounting between them.

And then, without warning, he leaned forward and kissed her. It wasn't just a peck on the cheek—it was the full on, open mouth, passionate abandon that Lavender giggled about incessantly in the dormitories, and his hands were cradling the back of her head, his fingers entwined in her hair. What the hell would possess him to do that? Demons? A gigantic brain tumor? Was he trying to _prove_ something?

That wasn't the worst of it. Not only was he kissing her, but _she_ was kissing him, with equal intensity, her hands gripping bunched handfuls of his shirt. She wasn't quite sure what part of her thought this was a good idea. But she knew that she was furious at his very existence, and the two of them seemed to have fallen into a pattern where they just started responding, automatically and intensely, to whatever the other one did. If he was going to argue with her than she was going to argue right back at him; if she was going to try to slap him across the face, then he was going to grab her hand; if she decided to curse him, he was probably going to curse her right back, and if he suddenly wanted to kiss her—well—

There they were.

She didn't even have time to ponder the madness of this situation, because it was—actually quite wonderful. Anything to relieve the monstrous weight of the hatred, or passion, or whatever the hell it was between them. He had an intensity that sent shivers through her—which made absolutely no sense, but there it was anyway.

Distantly, she heard something rattle in the hallway. They broke apart, gasping, as she shoved him away. She stared at the door, her eyes as wide as galleons. No one came in. Her gaze shifted to the floor, where it remained for the next few moments. After what seemed like hours—but was probably just minutes—Harry and Ron returned, their arms laden with candy bars.

"Look at this stuff," said Ron cheerily, as they both plopped back down on the bench. "_Skittles. _It's made out of rainbows. Crazy Muggles, eh?"

Hermione could have corrected him, but her voice no longer seemed to be functioning. She was still staring at the floor. Malfoy was staring out the window.

"I'm pretty sure it's just sugar, mate," offered Harry.

"Oh." Ron looked rather disappointed. He continued to explain the Muggle candy, which seemed to be the only food item they had purchased. Harry tossed a candy bar to Hermione, which she accepted numbly and began eating. Malfoy was still staring out the window, though she refused to look at him. A silent pact seemed to have passed between them. Perhaps, if they avoided making eye contact for the rest of their lives, they could forget the entire, traumatic incident that had just occurred.

She was fairly certain that she still hated him. He was still horrid, and mean, and selfish, and none of that would change with just one kiss. One horrible kiss, and it was an anomaly, and it would never, ever, ever happen again.

But, she reflected, it could be said that it was entirely his fault in the first place. After all—he had kissed her first. Her subsequent participation was entirely accidental. And the fact that she had enjoy—er—not entirely hated it…well—temporary insanity.

…right? Malfoy was going through a difficult time, losing his mother, and she—she was still upset over Ron. That was all.

It was going to be a _long_ train ride.

000

**AN:** Thanks to all my reviewers! I hope you like the kiss, and it wasn't _too_ rushed. There isn't going to be anymore kissing for a little while, so be patient…lol. Harkening back to Buffy, I was going for that Xander/Cordelia moment in season 2 where they're screaming at each other, there's lots of sexual tension, and them they start making out. I don't even know if it was replicable, but there you go. Mortal enemies…sexual tension…

Oh, man, there was a lot of introspection in this chapter, considering they sat on a train for nine pages, lol.

**PS:** Just because there is kissing doesn't mean they're madly in love. Or in love at all. They're teenagers after all. Love is vastly more complicated. And involved. And it's going to evolve over time and various adventures. Right now they just sort of have high tension sexy hatred, which is my favorite part of their slowly evolving ship. Awesome.

They're going to a Pub/Inn thing next chapter. Just out of curiosity:

1. There should be vampires, just sitting around.

2. Absolutely no vampires. Ugh. I hate ff vampires.

3. There should be vampires, and they should get into a minor scuffle with them.


	8. Blinded by the Night

Hermione shivered.

The worst thing about the woods at night is what you can't see. A werewolf, a manticore, a lethifold—an actual creature, no matter how terrifying, can be dealt with. It's that rustling on the side of the path, the snapping of a twig, and the infinity of horrible things that _could_ be watching you as you walk, that are truly chilling. And, Hermione thought miserably as she trudged along beside her friends, the smarter you are, the more ridiculously overactive your imagination is.

The woods seemed to be closing in on all sides, and nothing but the dim light of the waxing moon guided them, casting ominous, misshapen shadows on the narrow dirt path they were traveling on. They had been walking for quite awhile since they had disembarked from the train, long since leaving what could pass for civilization. They collectively shivered as a blast of unseasonably cool air whirled across them, igniting a rattling hiss from the pale, flickering leaves around them. The noise strongly reminded Hermione of a Dementor.

Her eyes were drawn to a golden shimmer off in the distance. Hermione's heart leapt. Finally—shelter. She sped up slightly. None of them spoke until they reached the entrance of the building. It was small and square, with tiny, grubby windows so small Hermione wondered if they were intended to let in any light at all. There was a swinging sign creaking above the door. It bore the legend, "The Slaughtered Lamb." They all stared at it.

"Cheery sort of place, isn't it?" remarked Ron dryly.

"Well…" Harry looked around at the darkness surround them. "It's either here—or we keep walking and try our luck farther—"

"Bugger _that_," said Malfoy loudly.

Hermione sighed. "Let's go in. We ought to be able to find a room, at least."

As they walked through the creaking wooden door, Hermione was immediately assaulted by the similarities between the place and the Hog's Head. Both were full of odd sorts of people, and both seemed to have fallen into a grubby state of disrepair many years ago. Many sets of eyes flew to them as they entered. For a moment, they stood frozen in the doorway, pausing awkwardly as they were carefully scrutinized by the pub's inhabitants.

The pub was about half full, and many of the clientele looked rather pale and gaunt—but that could easily be attributed to the cold, dark, weather of the far north. Hermione had never been to Albania before, and from what she had seen so far, she would not be disappointed in the least if she never returned. Most people wore dark, heavy cloaks, and dark expressions.

They made their way over to a deserted table and sat down. The people in the pub seemed to lost interest in them, and resumed their precious activities of drinking and talking in low voices.

"We should talk to the innkeeper," said Hermione slowly, looking around at the dark atmosphere. "See if we can stay here for tonight." Unpleasant as that notion was, they still had a fair distance to travel and they weren't really positively sure how to get where they were going. From what Hermione had deduced from the diary so far, Ravenclaw's tomb was hidden in a cave on a nearby mountain. Or it _was_ the cave—it was all rather unclear.

"I'll go," volunteered Harry. He departed from the table and headed towards the bar, where a man behind the counter was idly stacking glasses.

"D'you think I could get some Firewhiskey here?" asked Ron excitedly.

"Yes," said Hermione irritatedly. "But why would you want to?"

"I dunno," said Ron, slightly flustered. "Why not? I'm of age."

"_Of_ _age_ means they assume you're old enough to make responsible decisions," retorted Hermione.

000

Merlin's beard. They were arguing again. It was incessant. Draco sighed. He noticed an exhausted looking woman polishing a table near them with a dirty rag.

"Waitress?" he called, raising his hand as though he were back in school.

A few minutes later, she was setting down a bottle of alcohol and a dubious looking glass in front of him. As it landed with a clink, Weasley and Granger stopped arguing and fell silent, which was a rare blessing. Weasley was gawking at him.

"Are you really going to drink all that?" he asked, jaw agape.

"_No_," said Draco scathingly. "I'm going to take a _bath_ in it. What do you think I'm going to do with it, you git?" Granger was glaring disapprovingly at both of them, but he went to great lengths to ignore her. If he looked at Granger, he would inevitably begin thinking about Granger, and if he thought about Granger—things would get a lot more complicated. It was easier to hate the _idea_ of Granger, and pretend she wasn't an actual person sitting across from him.

"C'mon, share it, Malfoy," said Weasley.

"No."

"You can't possibly drink that whole thing," tutted Granger in what Draco was pleased to hear sounded like disgust.

"Watch me," he replied. He didn't have a whole lot of experience drinking hard liquor, but every once and awhile some alcohol managed to sneak its way into the Slytherin dormitories.

"Gimme some, you prat," Weasley demanded again in a whiny voice.

"No," said Draco, with a satisfied sneer.

"You're evil," grumbled Weasley, drumming his fingers against the smudged tabletop.

"Actually we prefer 'ethically challenged'." He poured himself a drink and swallowed it in one gulp.

"Oh so _now_ you're developing a social conscience?" said Granger sourly, folding her arms.

"As long as it doesn't require me to be nice to people," he smirked, and continued drinking. Potter was still missing. He really, really didn't care. It was actually a bonus.

Weasley continued whining, and Granger continued scolding him.

000

Hermione looked around, frowning. Harry still wasn't back yet. "Where's—"

She caught sight of him. He was heading away from the counter, but not towards his friends. Hermione followed his gaze. Near the far corner of the pub, there was a young girl sitting alone at a table. Above her were two people, a man and a woman. They seemed to be taunting her—or hurting her—it wasn't too clear. The man had a grip on her forearm and was attempting to pull her from her chair. The woman was speaking to her in a low hiss, her words inaudible. The girl, who couldn't have been older that 16 or 17, looked confused and frightened.

Hermione groaned inwardly. Harry was barely a few feet from them now, a look of righteous indignation on his face. She pushed away from the table and hurried towards them, but she was too late—Harry got there first, and immediately began telling them off.

"—should leave her alone," finished Harry, glaring up at the two people in a threatening manner. The girl gave him the same look of wide-eyed curiosity she had grown accustomed to seeing from Luna Lovegood. She looked like she was ready to burst into tears.

The two people Harry was attempting to threaten stared at her incredulously. They did not look intimidated, and they certainly didn't look amused. They searched him with, shining, catlike eyes. Their faces were pale—practically white, they both had dark hair, and bright, intense eyes. After a pause, the woman smiled, revealing a row of pearly white teeth, complimented nicely by a set of pointed canines that caused the color to drain from Hermione's face. _Vampires_. Oh bloody hell.

"You have no business here, child," said the woman in a cool, silky voice. "Leave."

"I'm not going anywhere until you promise to leave her alone," said Harry defiantly, pointing at the girl. Hermione couldn't tell if she was frightened, or simply confused.

"Harry—" she began in an urgent whisper. Why did he _always_ have to get involved?

The man laughed, his voice a gruff purr. "Leave," he repeated, his voice suddenly dangerous.

"No," said Harry stubbornly. "Not until—" The man suddenly lunged forwards. His movements were so quick and graceful, Hermione hadn't even noticed the change until Harry was staggering backwards, lip bleeding, from where the man had backhanded him across the face. Harry pulled out his wand and aimed it at them, furious.

The couple laughed at him. Hermione grabbed Harry's arm. Vampires were powerfully magical creatures. It would take several wizards to properly subdue one with a wand alone.

"Harry—" she whispered. "Those are _vampires_."

"That explains it," said Harry evenly. He continued to glare at the vampires, not breaking eye contact. The man idly licked the traces of blood off his hand.

"You're not going to take down two vampires with just one wand—" she hissed in a low voice. In an unfamiliar situation, she reverted to her default behavior—quoting textbooks. "There are several ways to kill a vampire, the most common being a stake of wood through the heart. Equally effective is the use of—"

Harry reached under his cloak and withdrew Gryffindor's blade. "Pure silver," finished Harry, stowing his wand back in his pocket and leveling the sword at the vampires. "I did do quite well in DADA, you know," he pointed out, smiling grimly. The vampires stared at the blade, the laughter quickly dying from their faces.

"Then _you'll_ also remember that vampires are pack creatures and rarely travel—" Hermione stopped. There was a soft rustling sound, as over half the inhabitants of the pub rose soundlessly from their chairs and fixed the sword holding boy with piercing, jewel-bright gazes. Hermione hadn't noticed how deadly silent the pub had become until exactly that second. "—alone," she finished weakly, looking around at the gathered crowd.

000

Granger had wandered off to find Potter. Draco poured himself another glass of whiskey and drank it, exhaling in a short wheeze as the liquid burned it way down his throat. Weasley continued to glare at him, which was annoying. One of the pale inhabitants of the pub, a woman with a waist length crop of blond wavy hair, and glittering blue eyes, slunk over to Weasley and stroked a claw-like finger across his cheek.

"What's your name, beloved?" she purred in a seductive voice. Weasley gawked at her.

"R—Ron," he stammered. She slid her hands around his shoulders, caressing his neck. Fine jewels glittered on her hands.

"Would you like to see eternity, Ron?" she asked in a sultry voice.

"I—er—" Weasley continued stammering. Draco had yet to consume enough alcohol to tolerate Weasley's presence. He had a strong feeling that woman was going to kill Weasley if she got the opportunity, but he really didn't like him very much so it didn't seem like a much of a concern. Rising from his seat, Draco took his bottle of solace in liquid form and his glass to an empty table in a shadowed corner, where he could get disgustingly drunk in peace.

He sighed, staring blankly into his glass. Maybe he needed some different liquor—this batch appeared to be broken. It was supposed to make him feel less horrible, but it wasn't working. He was feeling inexplicably guilty, tired, miserable, and alone. Now he not only felt guilty, tired, miserable, and alone—he was also dizzy and slightly nauseated.

He couldn't think of anything to solve this problem, so he decided to drink more whiskey.

000

"Harry…" said Hermione. They were both being quickly backed into a corner as half the inhabitants of the pub advanced on them in an alarmingly menacing fashion.

"I _know_, Hermione," he said nervously, leveling the sword in front of them.

"_Luma_ _Solem_!" shouted a voice. Someone screamed, and Hermione looked over to see Ron hurrying over to stand beside her.

"I think—I almost became someone's late night snack—" he said weakly. He looked quite pale and was adjusting his robes at the collar.

"Well, you're not too late to become someone else's dinner," said Harry, with a sort of grim cheerfulness.

"Bloody hell," said Ron. "Anyone have a plan?"

"Hey, I know. We could die horribly in a pub in the middle of nowhere before we even find a single Horcrux!" said Hermione, throwing up her hands in frustration. "That's the only viable plan I've been able to come up with so far!"

Ron furrowed his brow in frustration, looking around the room. "Well…" he said slowly. "Considering I almost had my throat ripped open, I'd say these are vampires." Harry nodded numbly. "And I actually do remember learning that vampires are highly immune to magic, plus they're already dead for most extents and purposes—so—er—"

"I have a silver sword," offered Harry. "I think that's what set them off in the first place."

Hermione felt her back hit a solid surface. They were now pressed up against the wall.

"OK!" said Ron. "Go—left! And we'll follow behind you. If we both hit them one at a time, we can probably get out that door on the side. Right?"

"Erm—ok," said Hermione, inwardly impressed. She had wondered if Ron's knack for chess would ever be practically applicable to anything other than giant chess boards guarding the Sorcerer's stone. It was reassuring to have a strategy that didn't involve being eaten by a dozen vampires within the next few minutes, however implausible that strategy might be.

She threw a quick glance across the pub towards Malfoy. He was still huddled in a corner, steadily consuming his hard liquor. She frowned. Alcohol—as she had dually noted after observing Sirius's behavior at Grimmauld Place—was _not_ the best way to deal with pain. However, at the present time, that was the least of her concerns.

000

Lucius Malfoy was a powerful man in many senses of the word. He was strong, intelligent, and proud—a capable wizard and a venerable man—one Draco had admired above all others.

Before his father had been taken away to Azkaban, Draco had been allowed to meet with him one final time. The trials were short—practically nonexistent—but they were an influential family and allowances were made. His father had charged him with a seemingly simple task—assume his rightful place as the head of the Malfoy family. Take care of the family's affairs, take care of the estate, and take care of…his mother.

He slumped further in his seat. Merlin, he was a failure.

If there was one thing he had learned, being raised as a Pureblooded wizard—family honor was the most important thing there was. The loyalties of the Malfoy family had lain with The Dark Lord. His father had seen to that. Therefore—Draco's loyalties lie with the Dark Lord. End of discussion.

Draco hadn't regretted that in the least. In fact—he hadn't even thought about it much. A cause which reaffirmed the belief that Purebloods were practically gods and everyone else was filth had actually sounded quite appealing to him at the time. It could be the fact that he was now very drunk—but everything was making less and less sense.

One thing he knew however—the Dark Lord was not his _Master_. His mother was dead because of the Dark Lord. Whether or not he agreed with the Dark Lord's ideas of blood purity—which he still did for the most part (didn't he?)—family blood had been spilt, and he was honor bound to avenge it, even if it meant killing his former Master.

_Master_. Draco seethed. The Dark Lord had treated him like a child—like a _fool_. He was just a pawn, an idiot, something useful in punishing his lieutenant's failures. Draco Malfoy was not a fool, he was not a child, and he was not _weak_. He was going to prove it, no matter what the cost.

He was, even if it meant allying with Potter and his ilk. And Granger—well—he took another swig of whiskey. How much booze would it take before he stopped thinking?

He yelped suddenly as something landed near his feet. The room was spinning rather extraordinarily now. It was a body—a human body perhaps—but it's porcelain features were rapidly melting away into the appearance of a corpse, dead for several years. He looked over. The Golden Trio seemed to have become embroiled in an impressively violent conflict with at least a dozen vampires. Merlin and Agrippa. Couldn't they just lie low for a single ruddy _day_?

000

Hermione had met a vampire before, at Slughorn's party. She had even chatted a little bit with him about Mr. Worple's book. The vampire, whose name was Sanguini, had merely nodded and muttered vaguely, all the while staring at her neck. If he had moved his eyes a little lower—he could have taken the place of McLaggen, her charming date that evening.

Sanguini was downright friendly compared to this lot, who were avidly attempting to kill her and her friends.

"_Luma_ _Solem_!" screamed Hermione, performing the only charm that seemed to do any good. The vampire in front of her hissed in fury, a patch of angry red boils springing up on her perfect, pale cheek. Hermione shrieked as she lunged at her.

Harry and Ron didn't seem to be having better luck. Harry had managed to stab one of them, but immediately looked horrified. The vampires seemed to take that as a sign of weakness, because he was now, pinned to one of the tables, a pair of white hands wrapped around his throat.

000

"Malfoy," choked Potter angrily, at the quite inebriated teen sitting near him. "If it's not too much of an imposition, perhaps you could get off your lazy arse and help us out a bit!"

Draco scowled at him, clutching his nearly empty bottle of alcohol, glass utterly abandoned and probably broken somewhere.

"Sod off," he mumbled. He took another swig of whiskey. They seemed to have the situation under control. They were all alive, only one of the tables was on fire, and they had managed to kill about one twelfth of the vampire population within the pub. "Clean, up your own…bloody…messh," he slurred, swaying in his chair.

Potter yelled, and slashed one of the creatures across the face with a sword. That just seemed to make them angrier.

Draco gave a long suffering sigh. "Fine…" He stood up, or more accurately, pulled himself into a semblance of a standing position. "I'll help, but only because…"

He staggered a few steps forward and then passed out, face first on the floor. Apparently, he had discovered his tolerance threshold for hard liquor.

000

A cool blast of air accompanied the soft creak of the opening door. A man stepped in—at least it looked like a man. He had a human form—but he moved with such liquid grace he seemed almost to be floating. He had a crop of jet black, slicked back hair and tawny, yellowish eyes that flickered like candle flames in the dim light of the pub. He was dressed entirely in black, with a ruby red jewel clasping his long cloak together around his pale neck.

The stranger had such an air of fascination about him. Hermione stared at him for quite a few moments before realizing the pub had fallen absolutely, deadly silent. The fighting had ceased, and everyone was staring at the man, perfectly still.

"What is this?" he asked softly, his voice a low purr. He searched the assembled crowd critically. Someone released Hermione's neck, and she dropped the ground. The vampires were gathering together, looking distinctly terrified. Hermione clambered to her feet and scampered to the side of Harry and Ron, who looked confused but relieved. Harry was looking warily at the stranger who had just entered.

"Lucretia?" asked the mysterious vampire, singling out one of the blond, female vampires. She trembled slightly. Hermione watched in awe as the younger, dark haired girl Harry had been protecting earlier raced over to the stranger and buried her face in his cloak. The girl began speaking in frightened whispers, her voice inaudible. His gaze turned to the three flustered young wizards in the pub. He walked towards them, the girl still hanging on his cloak.

"Mikhala, tells me you were protecting her," said the vampire in his silky voice. Harry nodded, looking uncertain. This man was _obviously_ a vampire. "Mikhala is…new," he offered. He smiled, without showing his teeth. "I fear many of my brood do not welcome someone of her age and…disposition."

"Welcome…?" asked Harry, bewildered. The girl smiled at him, revealing a row of perfect white teeth, and razor sharp incisors. Hermione saw Harry's jaw drop. "You—she's—what?"

"I am Dhmitri," said the vampire. His voice was soft and controlled, but had an air of danger to it. "Forgive me for the lack of hospitability from my brethren." He glanced at the crowd of vampires in the corner, all of whom looked terrified. "It will _not_ happen again." Hermione was quite inclined to believe him.

"I must have a word with them, excuse me…Mikhala— " he addressed the young vampire. "Perhaps you would like to share your _gifts_ with your rescuers." He turned away towards the crowd, cloak fluttering behind him. They shrank away in terror as he approached.

Mikhala smiled at them. She looked slightly off, Hermione noticed, as though she were not entirely sane.

"Gifts?" asked Ron tentatively, obviously wondering if they had actually managed to escape being eaten.

Mikhala looked quizzically at the ground behind Harry. "Friends?" she asked in bewilderment. Hermione followed her gaze, and gasped. Malfoy was passed out on the floor in a drunken stupor. She sighed in irritation. Harry helped her lift him into a chair.

"Ugh…" moaned Malfoy, rubbing his head. "Where's the herd of hippogriffs?"

"What?" said Hermione, confused. "What herd of hippogriffs?"

"The one that ran me over," he groaned.

"Oh, stop whining," scolded Hermione. "You did it to yourself, you drunken git." Malfoy just scowled at her.

"So—er—" The vampire Mikhala was observing Harry curiously, moving his glasses up and down the bridge of his nose to peer directly into his eyes. "What—uh—gifts do you have, Mikh…hala?" Harry asked nervously.

"My mother gave me silver when I was twelve…" she replied in a singsong voice. "She's gone now. So is everyone else. They were very thirsty…and…I can _see_…" added Mikhala, pointing to one of her glittering blue eyes.

"That's nice…" said Hermione, now quite horrified at the implications of the girl's words.

"That's why. Why I am. Things speak to me, and I listen." She climbed up onto one of the tables and peered into Harry's face. "It's in you," she said, cocking her head and frowning. "You're running around in circles."

Ron looked at Hermione. "What the bloody hell is going on?" he hissed.

"I—I think she's a Seer," said Hermione slowly. She was rather doubtful of the authenticity of such a claim, as far as Divination went. This girl seemed rather insane, but Hermione felt a great swell of pity for her. Was she a Muggle? Had the vampires killed her _family_?

"Oh…" said Ron, as the girl crawled towards him, over the table top. She caressed the air in front of him with a graceful white hand.

"It's a key," she whispered in his ear. "But don't tell them I told you, that's cheating." She whispered something else in his ear that Hermione couldn't hear. Ron looked rather confused and distressed.

The girl moved towards Hermione, smiling. She leaned close to her ear and whispered. "He'll follow you, you know. To where you're going. To the ends of the Earth." She looked quizzically at her. "Is that what you want?"

Hermione was lost for words. "I…" The girl scooted away.

000

The girl leapt towards Draco, observing him inquisitively. He was sitting up, gripping the back of his chair, his eyes closed. He opened them to find his vision obscured by a pair of large, bright eyes.

"He'll come for you," the young girl said softly. She placed a finger under his chin. "But you've already made up your mind, haven't you?"

Draco swatted her hand away. "Bugger off," he said sourly.

The tall vampire returned. The rest of the vampires had fled the pub, obviously intimidated. Draco decided he liked this creature. The younger, female creature dashed over a table and hid behind his cloak.

000

"It would now seem that I owe you a debt of gratitude," said Dhmitri.

"Oh—" said Harry, quite flustered. His attempt to be noble was rapidly spiraling into a moral grey area. "It was just—"

Dhmitri shook his head. "No. I will repay you. What is it you seek, in the northern lands?"

"We could use a place to stay for the night," offered Ron, staring warily at the vampire's mouth.

"There will be suitable lodgings for you here," he replied. "But it is not enough."

He reached under his shirt and drew out a sickle sized silver pendant on a delicate chain. He handed it to Harry.

"This is my insignia," he said softly. "Wear it as a sign of my debt to you. As long as you are here, you are under my protection. No one would dare harm you in your travels through my lands."

"Er—thanks," said Harry weakly.

Dhmitri smiled in satisfaction, revealing his fangs for the first time. "Good luck on your quest, my young friends." He moved to the door with the same sort of casual elegance. "Come, Mikhala," he called. The young vampire scampered to his side, pausing for a moment in the doorway.

"What does he _taste_ like?" she asked, staring at Hermione. Hermione gawked at her, startled.

"Mikhala," he repeated. She smiled secretively, then disappeared, leaving all four of them very shaken and confused and alone in the empty pub.

000

**AN:** I thought Ron should do something useful in this chapter. I felt bad for making him such an idiot. He is an idiot, but in an endearing sort of way. Also, Draco getting smashed was entertaining to me, I hope no one was offended. And in case you didn't guess, number three seemed to be a popular choice. Sexy vampires!

And in this chapter, Draco decides where his loyalties lie. Mostly they lie with himself, but it's a start. He's still arrogant and sarcastic, but not really evil, and he's a bit more mature. I think. Oh well. I think he's sexy, which is why I'm writing this fic in the first place.

If you hated the vampires, don't worry, they probably won't be showing up again ever. I hope they weren't too annoying.

**Pandas rule the world:** They will become allies, but not really friends. They'll be friendly (snarky) enemies fighting on the same side, lol.

Here's my (Gryffindor777) fanfiction parody tribute to this chapter:

_Draco was angst. He drank an entire bottle of Firewhiskey to show how he was dying inside. Then Harry killed vampires. Draco decided that he loved Hermione, and he loved gooey, fluffy goodness, and they all lived happily ever after and had lots of children and Lucius decided to be good too. And Voldemort died. The End. _

No? Well, you'll just have to wait until next chapter then, hahaha.

THANKS TO EVERYONE WHO REVIEWED! OMG, so many! I hope I didn't disappoint! Peace out. I'll try to update soon.


	9. Doorways

The smallest country in Europe, Albania, covers 11,100 square miles and consists of mountains and three rather large lakes. Like its Mediterranean counterparts, the typical weather patterns are mild temperatures, cool and cloudy, though the winters tend to be wet and the summers tend to be dry.

The air is cool, but far dryer than springtime back home in Britain, as attested to by the dying crunch of the leaves and broken branches below their feet. The Albanian forest is thick and deep, and Hermione stared down into its shadows. In her mind's eye she could almost see a small, insubstantial white shadow trailing like mist across the shadowy forest floor, pitiless red eyes gleaming in the darkness… however warm the weather was supposed to be, Hermione felt a chill and wrapped her cloak more tightly around herself.

She wrapped her arms almost protectively around the diary, though it was the middle of the day and she, Ron, Harry, and Malfoy were alone in the forest. Though gradual, the path they were traveling on is slanted up the side of a mountain. All that Apperating can really get you out of shape. Her legs were beginning to burn from walking.

Quite suddenly, the woods ended, the trees parting away as though a stage curtain were being drawn open before them. Before them lay another layer of rising mountain, a seamless rocky wall not much taller than she was.

Exhaling deeply, she pulled out the diary and double checked her schematics. This involved enlisting the aid of Malfoy's arm, but she tried to appear supremely unconcerned by that. She glanced quickly at him, but he wasn't looking at her. His eyes were squeezed shut, and his hand pressing against his forehead.

"Are you alright?" she asked him before she could stop herself.

He glared at her. "I have a hangover," he moaned, massaging his temples. He muttered a few curses under his breath, succinctly expressing just how horrid his hangover was at the moment.

The words of the girl in the pub still echoed through her brain at odd intervals. _He'll follow you…to the ends of the Earth…_Who? Harry? Ron? _Malfoy_? What was that supposed to mean? She frowned. Divination was a load of dragon dung anyway.

She scanned the page in front of her, pulling out one of the papers from Flamel and clutching it absently. Finally, she snapped the diary shut with one hand, staring at the rock face and smiling in satisfaction.

"We're here," she announced.

"We're where?" asked Ron in bewilderment.

"The final resting place of Rowena Ravenclaw." Hermione gestured broadly at the stone wall. "Ravenclaw's tomb."

"Hermione," said Harry delicately. "There's no door there…"

"We could make one," offered Ron. He pulled out his wand. "_Re_—" Hermione squeaked and raced forward to clap her hand over Ron's mouth.

"Are you mad?" she hissed, her heart hammering. "You'll bring down the whole mountain on us!"

"Stop shouting!" complained Malfoy. "Ugh, I think my head is going to explode."

"Then how the bloody hell are we supposed to get in?" demanded Ron, irritated.

"Is there another entrance?" asked Harry, swiveling his head around to see the surrounding landscape. He craned his neck to get a better view of the vast rising mountain in front of them.

"No," said Hermione. Staring resolutely at the wall, she propped open the diary in Malfoy's hands and began reading, tracing her gaze along the page with her index finger. She nodded to herself, and then began reciting.

"_O Lady of the Glen, I am a traveler, seeking wisdom. May I tread upon the lighted path?_" she recited, articulating clearly. It was an interesting incantation, more of a poem really. And it had taken a lot of guesswork trying to get the exact formula. It seemed to have a rhythm all its own as she spoke it.

"You do realize you're talking to a _wall_ don't you?" Ron pointed out dryly. She glared at him. Malfoy seemed too afflicted with head pain to care what they were doing. The rock remained as it was, smooth and immobile. Hmm…

"Maybe it needs blood," offered Harry, thoughtfully staring at the wall.

"Blood?" said Ron incredulously. "Eww."

"The last cave I—" he began, but Hermione cut him off impatiently. Yes, she knew exactly what he was going to say. She had precious little time to waste, after all. She wanted to solve the mystery _now_.

"Yes, I know, that's not it," she said quickly. She began running her hands over the cool, rough surface of the stone. Green, leafy tendrils curled around the edges, almost framing the center of the rock. She pushed a few of them aside like a leafy curtain, smiling in triumph as she found what she was looking for.

"What's that?" asked Ron, peering over her shoulder. There was a small, circular design carved into the rock. Across the surface of the rock, one in each of four corners, were similar designs.

"Alchemical circles," she said, tearing the vines away in attempt to free the other symbols. "Ancient alchemists believed there were four elements that made up the world—Earth, Air, Fire, and Water." Another vine gave way with a snap, flopping away and hanging limply on the wall.

"Oh," said Ron sarcastically. "Well, that explains it."

"Could you shut up Weasley?" said Malfoy aggravatedly. "Your whiny voice isn't helping my bloody migraine."

"Why don't _you_ shut up?" countered Ron, his comebacks as astonishingly clever as ever. Harry looked back and forth between the two of them.

"Why don't you both shut up?" suggested Harry diplomatically, then, seeing the miffed look on Ron's face, looked at Malfoy and added, "particularly _you_, ferret boy."

Hermione ignored them and focused on gaining entrance to the cave. It was _definitely_ here, she just had to figure out how to get in. She tapped the center of the wall with her wand.

"_Magus, Terra, Aer, Ignis, Aqua,_" she whispered. The symbols began to glow. Yes! Another round design appeared in the center of the wall. The fifth and final element of the universe—magic. Still, this was proving to be a bit more difficult than she anticipated. She thought back to the diary and Flamel's notes, determined to integrate the two and _not_ make a mess of everything.

"_It is the golden Key to know how to open the Doors. The key is Wisdom, and it unites all things_. _O Lady of the Glen, I am a traveler, seeking wisdom. May I tread upon the lighted path?"_

As if to answer her question, there was a rumbling from somewhere deep within the cave. A thin line of light suddenly appeared on the smooth surface of the stone, tracing itself in a wide arc as if someone were cutting a door with an invisible knife. She backed away. Her traveling companions fell silent and watched. The light faded, and the stone began to warp and twist, until all that was left was a gaping hole in the rock. It was an entrance to a cave that looked perfectly natural, like it had always been there.

They stared silently at the entrance for a few moments. It looked like a cavernous mouth, slack jawed and gaping at them, and within it lay an long tunnel of seemingly endless darkness.

"So…" said Ron casually. "Who wants to go in first?" They all looked around at each other. Going in first wasn't the most exciting prospect.

Malfoy sneered. "I though Gryffindors were supposed to be—"

"If you finish that cliché I'm going to kick your arse, Malfoy," she snapped. "Oh, come on," she said impatiently, after an awkward pause. She moved to step forward. "I'll—"

"I think Potter should go first," piped up Malfoy. Harry didn't speak a word of protest. He looked at the entrance, gripped his wand tightly, and strode into the cave before Hermione had a chance to react. They all hurried in behind him.

The further they moved into the cave, the darker it seemed to get. Hermione squinted her eyes and peered into the darkness. Her thoughts drifted to the diary.

_The entrance to the cave is a riddle in itself—but it requires relatively basic knowledge of alchemy if the proper resources are attained. Sirius, I'm going to spell this out for you—be patient. From what I can tell, a little bit of the essence of Ravenclaw herself survives in those walls. The magic there is ancient and powerful. I installed something on the walls that may be helpful. (I might point out—the cave did not respond kindly to any interference on my part.) However, you may find the incantation 'Allumia' rather helpful, unless of course you enjoy stumbling around in the dark. _

Hermione wondered how Sirius would have responded to this diary if he had found it. It certainly would have been an interesting adventure. Sirius tended to be a brash man—would he even have the patience to complete this quest? Would he have trusted Regulus enough to try? It was interesting that the prejudice that Sirius had immediately hoisted onto his brother was probably the same prejudice that had made it so easy for the entire wizarding community to damn Sirius and send him off to Azkaban without a second thought.

Bugger all. Could her brain ever focus on the task at hand without analyzing every other thought that occurred to her? Being intelligent was rather irritating sometimes.

"_Allumia_," she cried, pointing her wand into the seemingly endless expanse of the tunnel. There was a rushing sound, as though the cave was gasping for air. Suddenly, previously unnoticed torches on the walls of the cave burst to life with dazzling blue flames. There were dozens of them, stretching far into the vast tunnel.

"Nice one, Hermione," said Harry, impressed. Hermione beamed. It was always nice to be appreciated. "I really don't think I would have had much luck of this quest on my own," he added meaningfully. She blushed. He was probably right, but she was embarrassed to admit it.

000

They walked until the cave tapered off into a doorway sized opening. The stared at it curiously, but eventually decided just to walk right through it. It didn't exactly look threatening. Draco decided if Potter would keep up his habit of self-righteously charging ahead of his friends for the entire journey, everything would probably work out just fine. Or at least it would give Draco some time to run away if things got terrifying.

He felt a tingling in the back of his neck as they passed through the doorway. Enchanted—but that was to be expected. The problem was figuring out exactly what the enchantment _did_. The cave emptied into a large stone cavern.

Draco was hummimg under his breath. Suddenly, Weasley hauled off and smacked him upside the head.

"OW!" he said angrily. "What was that for, you git? I still have a hangover, you know."

Weasley looked irate. "You know very well what you were humming, you git!"

Draco paused for a moment, considering. Then, a slow smile spread onto his face as the identity of the melody occurred to him. "_Weasley, He was born in a bin, He always lets the Quaffle in—_" he sang. The song was one of his more brilliant strokes of genius. Weasley curled as though ready to spring on him, but Potter grabbed his robes.

"Much as I hate to admit it, we _do_ need him alive," said Potter apologetically. Weasley grumbled mutinously but made no further attempt to kill Draco.

At the far end of the cave was another door-like opening in the rock. They dutifully strode through it, and Draco felt a similar chill. This time they passed into another room. This one seemed different, however. It was smaller than the previous cavern, and it was more purposefully hewn out of the rock of the cave. It was circular, with a lower ceiling and at least a dozen doors spread out on the walls.

"Er—right," said Potter looking around uncertainly. "Which one?" He looked expectantly at Granger.

"I'm not sure," said Granger, clasping her hands together.

"Granger doesn't _know_ something?" he sneered. "_Really_? I think I might die of shock…"

Gragner ignored him, which was infuriating in itself. For some reason—he did not like being ignored. He wanted a reaction, preferably outrage.

She looked around thoughtfully, her brow furrowed in concentration. "I think…" She strode through one of the doors. Draco was suddenly alarmed. She didn't know where that went! There was absolutely no assurance that she would get lost. What the bloody hell was she doing?

"I though so…" sighed Granger's voice. It was coming from behind him. The three of them whirled around. She had reemerged from another one of the doorways. Draco quickly tallied them up. There were thirteen in total.

"They're all connected," she explained. "They take you back to where you were. It's sort of like a maze."

"I'm really not a huge fan of mazes," said Potter, as if _anyone_ cared. Stupid Potter with his stupid attitude and his stupid sword. _Why_ did he have to be the most powerful potential ally around? How wretchedly unfortunate.

"What do you mean?" asked Weasley. He went forward through one of the doors, only to reemerge from a different door. "Bloody hell."

Potter followed his example. For Merlin's sake, what was so fascinating? They already knew how it worked. For a glorious moment, Draco thought Potter would disappear forever, but he quickly reemerged in a different part of the room. Draco was understandably disappointed.

"This is insane!" cried Weasley. He raced in and out of the doors, emerging randomly at different points in the room. "What's the point of this?"

"It's meant to test your wit and worthiness," said Granger, in a voice more patient that Weasley probably deserved. He was running around like a frenzied three year old. She followed his example of moving in and out of the doors, but she moved slowly and more purposefully, with a deeply contemplative look on her face. "It's like the staircases back at Hogwarts." She disappeared, reappearing on Draco's left. "Those were Ravenclaw's idea as well."

"Those staircases are pointless!" said Weasley, now sounding hysterical. "They're annoying! They don't test anything other than your ability to twist your ankle!"

Granger did not respond. She strode back and forth across the room, muttering to herself and pointing at the doors. Draco looked down at his hands. He was still holding R. A. B.'s diary. She had thrust it in his hands after lighting the torches.

Curiosity nagged at him. Last time he opened the diary, the repercussions hadn't been so spectacular. But, he reasoned, he had every right to read the diary, considering it was nearly responsible for his death and definitely responsible for his involvement in this entire mess, and he was the only one alive who could read it unaided. He cracked open the journal a few pages past the spot Granger had marked and began to read.

_Sirius, I know you're too dense to work things out for yourself, so…_

Finally, Granger clapped her hands. "I think I have it!" she said, smiling broadly. "You just have to travel through the doors in a specific pattern. I think it's—"

"North door thrice, South-southeast door twice, East door once, Northwest door four times, across the South door once, West door once, Southwest door once, and finally the West door, one time only," Draco recited from the diary.

They all stared at him. "Oh…" Granger looked crestfallen. "I _had_ it all figured out, too."

"Hermione," said Potter, turning his gaze towards her. "Please, _please_ don't tell me you purposely ignored that part of the book so you could solve the puzzle on your own."

Granger flushed crimson, an obvious indication of her implicit guilt. "Well, let's not waste anymore time, shall we?" she said briskly, striding forward towards the North door.

000

"I don't see what the problem is…" she muttered to herself, as she passed through the door. She reappeared by the East door and continued walking. "Ravenclaw was the probably the most intellectually brilliant witch of all time, it's not an opportunity one comes across everyday…"

Once they had successfully bypassed the intricate maze of doorways, they found themselves walking through another long, dark tunnel, conveniently lit by the same blue torches. Hermione looked around at the roughly carved stone walls, and shivered slightly. Regulus had written about the ancient magic in this place, but she wasn't entirely sure he had felt what she was feeling now. He couldn't have—or he would probably have mentioned it.

It was more than a magical place—there was magic in the air at Hogwarts too—but this was so thick it was almost tangible. It was as though something powerful and alive were coursing through the walls of the cave like a heady current. Ancient magic.

She felt connected to it in a way she couldn't explain.

This was Ravenclaw's tomb, after all. Was that the reason? She felt her mind drifting back to first year, and the Sorting.

_Her hands clamped around the edge of the Hat, and she jammed it eagerly onto her head. She could feel her entire body humming with excitement. Hundreds of pairs of eyes were boring into her, but she didn't care. _

_She had read all about this over the summer. She loved to read. She had read a lot of things in her lifetime, each of them fantastic and wonderful and exciting. But this—this was _real_. It was coming true just as she had read it. Dumbledore wasn't just a white bearded wizard living in her imagination, he was sitting at the staff table, with a broad smile and a crooked nose. Hogwarts was real. Magic was real. _

_She had even read about the Sorting Hat, but she still jumped slightly when a little voice began buzzing in her ear. _

"_My, my, what a MIND!" cried the voice. "Merlin's Beard, I don't think I've seen such a mind since Ravenclaw herself! You would do quite well in her House, my dear. She would be deeply honored for you to join the illustrious ranks of those of the Greatest wit and learning—"_

"_What about the other houses?" she thought, interrupting the hat. "I've read about them, too."_

"_Other houses?" said the voice, sounding slightly disappointed. "Well…I see quite a brave heart, plenty of courage and loyalty, you would make an excellent Gryffindor, I suppose."_

_Hermione smiled inwardly. Yes! She had read about Gryffindor. It sounded like the best house, though she had only—_

"_Yes, what else…" continued that Hat. "All that cleverness has made you quite resourceful, quite a bit of cunning when necessary, drive, ambition…all qualities valued by Slytherin, too bad he is rather reluctant to admit Muggle borns…"_

_Hermione wrinkled her nose in distaste. Slytherin? Oh no, that would not do at all. She had read about Slytherin—it did not sound like a very nice place. _

"_No? Well, are you sure? You would do VERY well in Ravenclaw, very well indeed, oh, what a mind…"_

"_No thanks," she said politely. "I'd like to be in Gryffindor, please." _

"_Very well," said the Hat reluctantly. "I suppose it simply must be—"_

_GRYFFINDOR!_

Hermione was so wrapped up in her own thoughts she didn't notice everyone else had stopped moving until she crashed right into Ron's back. She hastily apologized, but no one seemed to notice. They were staring riveted at a pair of large, ornate doors set in the stone wall in front of them.

Each of them stood motionless, wearing identical looks of fear on their faces. Hermione slowly followed their lines of sight, her eyes finally resting on the two gargantuan creatures perched on pedestals on either side of the door. She felt a thrill of terror wisely remained motionless.

Bright, almond shaped eyes flickered in the bluish darkness of the cave. They were set within a smooth, feminine faces, attached to powerful, golden feline bodies. There was a soft clicking noise as they idly curling their menacing clawed paws, tapping their razor sharp nails on the marble pedestals.

Hermione swallowed. She had been so wrapped up in her own thoughts, she had forgotten the next part of the diary. She silently cursed Regulus for being vague, but also realized that it wouldn't matter, these creatures would not ask the same question twice.

The trial of riddles. Another delightful test of wit and learning devised by the illustrious Lady of the Glen.

Sphinxes.

000

**AN:** Slow Dramione. Slow but steady. He mocks her one minute but is genuinely concerned for her safety the next? (Even though he doesn't understand it or like to admit it.) If you look carefully, you can even see him jumping to her defense against her own friends! Ooh…of course, it could be coincidence—but it isn't! So there. I thought I would justify that, though I also feel that I should just let you figure it out for yourselves. So I'll shut up now.

Sorry I haven't posted in awhile. I moved into college and couldn't get my internet up, then my grandmother was sick and I had to leave school after two days…oy. I'll try to post weekly from now on.

**Bill and Fleur's Wedding:** Moved to the end of the summer due to war related security concerns. They decided to have it at Hogwarts in honor of Dumbledore. So it _will_ take place, I didn't skip it. Just thought I'd mention that. It may get explained again in the actual story, but that's OK.

Thank you so much for reviewing! Yay! Keep 'em coming.


	10. Crossroads and Conundrums

He knew about Sphinxes. Despite most peoples' opinion, he had actually gleaned something from 6 odd years of schooling. He couldn't give you the exact quote from _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_—but he knew enough not to run away screaming at the sight of the beasts. That was a sure way to get your head sliced clean off your body by a huge, cat-like paw.

He stood frozen. There was a huge metallic door in front of them, the blue flames of the torches cast weird, dancing reflections onto its ornately carved surface. One of the massive monsters slowly blinked her almond shaped eyes and turned her gaze towards the four paralyzed teenagers in front of her.

"You may hear our riddles, or you may back away now," she said. Her voice was low and rumbling, and caused the hairs to prickle on the back of Draco's neck.

"Can't we hear the riddles and then back away?" asked Potter uncertainly.

"No," replied the other sphinx flatly. Potter turned slightly green. The Trio exchanged significant glances. Potter looked at him. Surprise at the consultation, Draco merely shrugged. What the hell? Why not. Getting sliced to bits in here, or going outside and getting blown to bits by Death Eaters…He'd take his chances.

"OK…" said Potter, drawing a deep breath. He looked scared, but determined. Draco knew that expression all too well. Could Potter be…human? Nah…

The sphinx's voice resonated at a low purr as she spoke, her voice rising at a rhythmic hum that seemed to fill the entire cavern.

"_What blossoms in the morning, bears fruit in the afternoon, and wilts in the evening, but lives and breathes without petals or leaves?"_

They were all silent for a moment. Then, Granger stepped forward. Who else, thought Draco. He might have sneered, but he was a little too terrified at the moment.

"A woman," she said clearly. Her voice pierced the stillness of the cave, echoing off the many faceted walls. "Maiden, Mother, and Crone."

"Correct," said the first sphinx, her beautiful impassive face showing hints of what could have been a smile. "You may step beyond." The doors creaked open, revealing a rectangle of inky blackness in the space beyond. Granger walked forward and stepped over the threshold of the door. The rest of them moved to follow her, but the second sphinx emitted a low growl which froze them in their tracks.

"She has proven herself. She alone may pass." It fixed them with an icy stare. "You may not."

Granger looked as shocked as they did. Draco could almost see what she was thinking reflected in the terror in her eyes. They were all quite unlikely to be able to solve the riddles without her aid, conceited as it sounded.

Without warning, the second sphinx began speaking again.

"_What can run but never walks, has a mouth but never talks, has a head but never weeps, has a bed but never sleeps?"_

Draco tried desperately to stay calm. Potter and Weasley looked as though they were thinking very hard, or possibly like they were in immense pain—perhaps both. Thinking probably didn't come naturally to them. Potter looked ready to open his mouth. Draco felt a thrill of terror. A wrong answer would get them all sliced to ribbons.

"It's a river," said Draco loudly, cutting Potter off.

"I was _going_ to say that," said Potter indignantly.

"Correct."

Draco couldn't suppress a smug grin as he strode forward and stood next to Granger's side. Granger looked stunned. She was giving him that look again—like she had never seen him before, which was ridiculous. She had seen him almost everyday for the past six years.

Why did she have to look at him like that? With a look that wasn't exactly the look of seething contempt she usually threw at him? She hadn't _really_ been any…kinder to him recently. Should she be? Why did he even care? And why, why did he kiss her? Or maybe she kissed him. Yes—that must have been it. She kissed him, because she was a filthy Mudblood harlot. Yeah. That was it. He was confused, and grieving, and she took advantage of him! She was horrible.

Draco sighed. Yeah, right.

Potter and Weasley were looking nervously at each other again. The first sphinx had already asked another riddle.

"_What does man love more than life, Fear more than death or mortal strife, What the poor have, the rich require, and what contented men desire, What the miser spends and the spendthrift saves, and all men carry to their graves?"_

Potter looked at Weasley, who nodded reassuringly. Another misguided attempt at chivalry, no doubt. Idiot.

"Nothing," said Potter, exhaling sharply. "The answer is nothing at all."

"Correct." The first sphinx nodded again. The second sphinx turned his piercing gaze onto Weasley, who looked rather pale.

"_I have a head but not a face, with crooked teeth but not a mouth, I can take you any place, with the twist of my head and the grasp of my brow. What am I?" _

"Well, er—" Weasley grasped the back of his neck with his hand, shuffling nervously. From beside Draco, Granger looked as though she were quite ready to explode and scream the answer at the top of her lungs. Weasley furrowed his brow, then, slowly, a look of comprehension crossed his face.

"You're a key," said Weasley brightly. "It's a key." He looked surprised.

The second sphinx nodded and bowed its large head. Weasley stepped forward through the doors and joined his friends, looking immensely relieved. They all immediately took off down the passage. Draco could hear the metal doors grating against the stone as they swung shut behind them.

"That's _cheating_, you know, Weaselbee," Draco hissed superiorly in his ear. Weasley looked thoughtful for a moment.

"Sod off, Malfoy," he grumbled.

000

They walked for what seemed like ages. The torches were much sparser in this stretch of cave, making it even darker and more unsettling than the rest of the tomb. Hermione looked at her watch. They had been traveling since early in the morning.

"Do you want to stop for awhile and rest?" she asked them, feeling rather like a mother hen. Ron and Harry were embroiled in a debate about Quidditch, and Malfoy was skulking silently along in front of them.

Harry looked thoughtful. "Well…I suppose it wouldn't be a bad idea," he said.

"Do you think it's safe?" asked Ron uncertainly. He gazed around at the walls of the cave, as if expecting acromantulas to start pouring out of every crevice in the rock. "We could take turns taking watch or something," he offered.

"I don't think that's necessary," said Hermione, shaking her head. "Nothing in here is…free roaming. Locations are specific. We should be fine."

"Alright," shrugged Ron. They all conjured pillows and settled down. She, Harry, and Ron slept on one side of the narrow strip of passage through the cave, while Malfoy slept on the opposite side.

Hermione felt odd sleeping inside a cave, let alone a cave that was also an elaborate tomb, but she was rather exhausted and decided it didn't matter. She felt safe with her friends by her side. She curled up against her pillow and closed her eyes. She could almost hear the cave whispering to her as she drifted off to sleep.

Hermione was standing in the window of a high tower, overlooking the Hogwarts grounds. The rolling hills and trees she was used to seeing seemed different somehow, but not unfamiliar. She extended her hand forward and a large, white eagle fluttered down onto it, steely talons glinting in the sun.

Her hand was different too—slightly paler than usual with long, graceful fingers and adorned with a billowing, dark blue sleeve. She turned and surveyed her chambers as a sharp knock sounded from behind her. The room was decorated in rich shades of deep blue and bronze—with lavish velvety hangings and golden finish. There were books and papers littering every available surface—maps, Arithmancy runes, telescopes, history texts, potions books—every discipline imaginable.

She turned to a mirror and caught sight of her face. It was white and smooth, with dazzling blue eyes. A sheet of jet black hair cascaded down her back in loose, silky waves.

"_Come in," called a feminine voice that, like the body, was not her own. _

The door swung open. A man entered. He had black hair and pale skin as well, though his eyes were cold and black. The robes he was wearing looked exquisitely expensive, and were deep green, trimmed delicately with silver.

"_Rowena—" He began. Hermione turned haughtily towards the window, waving her hand so that the eagle swooped gracefully away. _

"_Rowena, please," he said, irritated. "You know I would never—"_

"_I don't know what to believe," she said sharply, not looking at him. _

The man slipped next to her from behind, wrapping one hand slowly around her waist, and running his other hand seductively across her neck. She gasped.

"_I want you back," he said silkily. "We were happy together, once. Don't let the lies of those simpering fools drive us apart…" One of her lily white hands closed on his._

"_Godric said…" she began is a soft voice, turning her head to meet his eyes. _

"_Gryffindor is a liar!" he spat, his voice rising in pitch. "A Muggle loving, sympathetic fool!" _

Something flashed in her eyes, and she snapped her head back out the window. "Fine," she said icily. "If that's how you feel…"

"_What do you mean by that?" he snapped. _

"_You—you hate Muggleborns," she said, her voice shaking slightly. "You think they're unworthy…"_

"_They are!" he said fiercely. _

"_You…I…Salazar—I—" she looked desperately around the room. "I'm Muggleborn." _

The silence seemed to fill the entire room. "You're what?" he hissed.

"_You heard what I said," she said viciously. "I forged my lineage. The Ravenclaws from Glen are Wheelrights—and occasionally scholars. They have been for centuries—until me." _

He pushed her roughly away, stepping back, away from her as if she were infected. "You—lying—whore!" he yelled.

"_I never lied to you!" she screamed back, matching his volume. "I am a witch!"_

"_You are a liar and a whore!" he hollered._

"_Get out! Get out of my chambers!" She pointed furiously at the door._

"_Fine," he said, his voice dropping to a low growl. "Aren't you a clever little girl?" _

She fumed at him. Hermione could feel the blood screaming in her ears. "Godric was right about you." Her voice trembled. "Did you—the Lacarres—last week someone—did you kill them?" The anger drained from her voice somewhat, and she simply looked frightened.

"_Yes." Salazar's dark eyes blazed madly, a very ugly look crossing his features. "They were unclean, unworthy of this place." _

Hermione swallowed the bile rising in her throat. "GET OUT!" she screamed. She grabbed a vase and threw it at him. An explosion of blue and white fragments skittered across the floor. "YOU ARE A MONSTER! GET OUT OF MY CHAMBERS!"

He backed away, his face livid, his black eyes icy. "You're as unclean as all of them, you foolish whore. You'll all die. I shall have my revenge, even if it takes a thousand years."

"_OUT! I NEVER WANT TO SEE YOU AGAIN!" She threw something else, a delicate silver instrument that had been clicking softly on the table. It shattered noisily against the door. "GET OUT!" _

Hissing darkly under his breath, he turned and swept out of the chambers, his deep green cloak billowing behind him.

The door slammed shut and Hermione sank down onto her knees, her back leaning heavily into the wall just below the window. She began to cry.

000

Draco was walking down the halls at school, wearing his usual uniform. His robes were stuffed haphazardly into his bag. The halls seemed bright, but deserted. He heard a dull clapping sound on the stone floor—footsteps ahead of him. He sped up, trying to catch up with the person in front of him.

It was a girl. She turned a corner, out of sight. He broke into a run. She was close to him now, a schoolbag slung over her shoulder. He lunged forward, spinning her roughly and pinning her to the wall.

Hermione stared at him evenly through intense brown eyes. She raised an eyebrow.

"_Yes?" she asked, folding her arms expectantly. "What do you want?" _

He paused for a moment, cocking his head slightly. Then he answered, the word slipping through his lips before he could stop it.

"_You." _

He grabbed her roughly and kissed her. She wrapped her arms around his neck and returned the favor, loosening the tie around his neck with one of her hands…

Draco woke up gasping, and for the life of him—couldn't get back to sleep. He stared wide eyed at the ceiling, refusing to look across the cave.

000

"The next passageway is the reason the Dark Lord cannot enter the cave," explained the instructions Regulus had written. "Don't worry Sirius, it won't affect you."

Hermione could only assume it wouldn't affect any of them either, but cursed Regulus again for being vague. It seemed he could be nearly as brash as his older brother when he wanted to.

They were walking again in the long and seemingly endless tunnel. Hermione was haunted by her dream last night. Usually she rarely remembered dreams—they faded like smoke as soon as she opened her eyes. This one was different however. She remembered each sight, each sensation quite vividly. It didn't seem like a dream at all—more like…a memory. Only it definitely wasn't her own.

"You think they'll ever catch Snape?" Ron asked Harry.

"Not if I catch him first," said Harry darkly. Ron didn't speak for a moment.

"So..." said Ron. "Ginny is looking forward to seeing you at the wedding." Harry turned slightly pink.

"Er...me too..." he said nervously.

"If you break her heart I'll kick your arse," said Ron seriously.

Harry grinned. "So I've heard."

Malfoy rolled his eyes. He cast a quick glance at her, paled slightly, and looked away. Oh, Merlin. What was his problem now?

The passageway spilled out into a lofty, vaulted chamber. There didn't seem to be anything particularly interesting about the chamber, except for the stone effigy of a snake perched atop the entranceway as if it were slithering out of the rock. Hermione eyed it warily. The idea of Ravenclaw having a serpent effigy in her tomb was rather baffling, especially after what she had just seen. Still, Regulus hadn't elaborated much about it, so she could only assume they should ignore it as well.

Harry and Ron were laughing behind her. Then, Harry suddenly stopped.

"What's wrong, mate?" asked Ron.

Harry opened his mouth, but the only thing that came out was a series of low hisses. At first Hermione was confused, but she quickly realized--Parseltongue.

"Er--you do know I don't speak Parseltongue, right?" said Ron slowly, sounding perplexed.

"You're a freak, Potter, if I haven't mentioned that lately," pointed out Malfoy, folding his arms and leaning casually against the wall.

Harry whirled around to tell Malfoy off, but again all that came out was another bunch of unintelligable hisses. Harry was starting to look panicked. He turned to Hermione and continued to hiss frantically, waving his arms and jabbing madly at the air, which didn't do much to make him any easier to understand. Hermione frowned, her eyes falling on the snake effigy. She watched its gem stone eyes light up with an eerie green light every time Harry opened his mouth, and suddenly she understood.

She grabbed the still panicking Harry by his shirt collar and dragged him backwards into the stone passage they had just traveled down. Ron followed by his friend's side. Malfoy sighed and followed reluctantly, pushing idly off the wall. The glow of the effigy faded as Harry and Hermione crossed the threshold of the chambers.

"_Ssss hssss eeehhhh ssss hhhhhsss _the hell is going on!" demanded Harry. "Oh, Merlin." He panted, placing his hand on his chest and looking strained. "What was that?"

"That, I believe," said Hermione, "is Ravenclaw's way of keeping Salazar Slytherin from disturbing her eternal rest."

"But I'm not a Slytherin," said Harry, looking highly affronted.

"Yeah, he's the git in Snake Breath's house," said Ron, pointing accusingly at Malfoy.

"Hey!" protested Malfoy.

"No offense, Harry," said Ron.

"None taken."

"I'm offended," complained Malfoy.

"Good," said Ron, cheerily, "No one cares."

"Oh, stop it, Ron," said Hermione. "Look--it's the Parseltongue, not the Slytherin...ness. That must be why Voldemort couldn't enter the cave himself."

"Why did she hate Slytherin so much?" asked Malfoy curiously.

"Because he was a git?" offered Ron snidely. Malfoy scowled at him.

"Actually..." said Hermione delicatlely. "Ravenclaw and Slythering had quite a...falling out when Slytherin left."

"I thought all the founders were fighting," said Harry, confused.

"Yes..." She felt a blush creeping into her cheeks. "I think...they were lovers."

Ron let out a low whistle. "Betcha won't find that anywhere in _Hogwarts, a History_."

"She was Muggleborn," added Hermione quietly.

Malfoy's hand slipped ungracefully off the wall, and he had to stumble to catch his balance. "She was _what_?" he said in disbelief. "How do you know that?"

She shrugged, looking away. "I...I don't know...there's just something about this place, that..."

Saying "I saw it just now in a dream" was a very un-Hermione-like thing to do, she told herself, and she wasn't about to start that anytime soon.

"Um...right," said Harry diplomatically. He glanced at the cavernous room before them. "How can we fix this?" he asked, after a pause.

"There's only one thing I can think of," she said, sighing. She strode out into the passage, into the cavern, and leveled her wand at the effigy. "_REDUCTO_!" she screamed. The light that burst from her wand was deflected by a shield charm. ricocheted The curse ricocheted off the walls, tearing an extremely large hole in the ceiling above her as she scampered back to her friends.

"The only plan Hermione can come up with involves violence?" said Ron, sarcastically. "I'd say were doomed."

Harry paled slightly. "It's not coming off, is it?" Hermione shook her head, her lips drawn.

"You all have to go on without me," he said heavily.

"Harry--" said Hermione.

"No way, mate," said Ron, shaking his head. "We're in this together, remember?"

"We're not in this at _all _if you don't get the Horcrux," said Harry resolutely. "I'll go back alone."

"No you won't," protested Ron. "We'll all go together."

Hermione bit her lip, trying to be pragmatic. They had come this far. Someone had to go ahead, or everything they had done so far would be useless.

"I'm going back," said Harry firmly. "The rest of you have to go ahead without me."

"If you're going back I'm going with you," said Ron.

Harry sighed. "Ron--"

"This is not open to debate," he replied. "You can't go back alone."

"But then..." Harry looked at Hermione and Malfoy.

Hermione looked at him and smiled, trying to be strong. "I'll be OK," she said.

"You can't go alone either," said Ron, looking even more alarmed.

"I'm not alone..." said Hermione, looking at Malfoy.

"Oh, no," said Ron. "NO."

"I need him to read the diary," she said, shrugging helplessly. Malfoy was leaning against the wall again, his face impassive. Harry and Ron suddenly grabbed him and dragged him farther down the passage, out of earshot of Hermione.

000

Potter and Weasley pushed him roughly against the wall, glaring at him. In the distance, Granger sighed and tapped her foot impatiently.

"If anything--anything happens to her--I will personally kill you," said Potter coolly.

"Not if I get to him first," growled Weasley.

"Do you understand me?" said Potter.

"Yes," said Draco quietly.

"I still don't trust him," said Weasley, eyes narrowed.

Draco sighed. "I swear on my Family's Honor, I won't let any harm come to her."

"Oh the honor of the _Malfoy's_," said Weasley sarcastically. "Now I feel better."

"Well I wouldn't expect you to know anything about Pureblood Honor, you bloodtraitor--" snapped Draco.

"That's enough," said Potter sharply. Weasley shut up, but still looked irritated. "Do you swear?"

"I do," he said.

"Fine," said Potter. Weasley turned and jogged over to Hermione, wrapping her in a hug and saying goodbye. Potter moved to follow him.

"You--" Draco began quietly. He shoved his hands in his pockets and shifted uncomfortabley. "She means a lot to you, doesn't she?"

Potter looked at him strangely. "Of course she does."

"Oh, I...well..." He nodded. "On my honor," he swore again, not sure why he felt so obligated.

Potter nodded as well, and then walked away.

000

Hermione's blinked back tears as she hugged her friends goodbye.

"I won't be long," she promised.

"Come back safe," Harry squeezed her so hard she was having difficulty breathing. "We couldn't do this without you, you know."

She smiled. "I know."

"If Malfoy is mean to you, let me know," said Ron seriously. "I'll kill him for you."

She chuckled, hugging him. "I know you will."

She handed Harry the crest that the vampire had given them. "Be safe," she said. "I'll see you on the other side."

They turned and walked away.

"If you get into trouble, just turn around," called Harry over his shoulder. "We'll find another way."

In her heart, Hermione knew there was no other way. She would either get the Horcrux, or they would never defeat Voldemort. Dumbledore was gone, there was no one else to save them.

"You can use Malfoy as a human shield if you need to," added Ron.

"Bite me, Weasley," retorted Malfoy.

She waited as they walked away down the tunnel, refusing to continue on until they finally faded away into darkness.

"Well," she said briskly, covertly wiping a tear from her face. "Shall we?"

Malfoy shrugged. "Sure."

Hermione moved uncertainly forward. Malfoy smiled, his usual cocky grin, but it seemed less tinged with malice than usual.

"You know the way. Go ahead," he said casually. "I'll follow you, wherever you think we need to go."

I'll follow you. To where you're going. To the ends of the earth.

Hermione nearly dropped the diary in her hands.

Nodding weakly, she set off into the darkness, Malfoy close behind her.

000

AN: Thank you all so much for reading and reviewing. I'll try to post again soon. I've been having a very bad week. My grandmother passed away. :(

I hope everybody liked this chapter! I hope the Founders drama wasn't too out there, lol.

I'm a little too tired to respond to reviews, maybe next time. I do appreciate them though! Thank you.


	11. Fear and Loathing

Hermione wasn't sure if the silence between her and Malfoy was terribly awkward or just a natural byproduct of the history of emnity between them. In either event, it was quite oppressive. She caught him staring at her more often then she liked, and she couldn't help wondering...what was he thinking? Was he thinking about her? About Voldemort? About the future? The whole thing was driving her a little crazy.

The only noise that accompanied them as they walked was the dull scrape of their footsteps on the stone and the steady, echoing drip of water somewhere in the distance. Hermione threw another quick look at Malfoy. He was staring at her again, looking slightly aggrevated.

"Yes?" she asked, looking at him quizically. Maybe he was going to snap and run hysterically out of the cave. "What do you want?"

Malfoy jumped about a foot in the air, staring at her as she were a ghost. "I don't want anything!" he said, a little hysterically.

"OK..." she said slowly. He must have been more afraid than she realized. "If you're scared of going ahead, there's--"

"I'm not scared!" he retorted indignantly.

"Well, alright then..." she turned away and continued walking. He lagged a few feet behind her.

"You're--in my head," he told her, looking a little irritated.

"I'm what?" she said, bewildered.

"You're in my head!" he repeated, still sounding a little hysterical. "You're not supposed to be in my head! I hate you!"

"Well--I--hate you too!" she replied haughtily. To her surprise, an odd look crossed Malfoy's face.

"Do you?" he asked. He looked almost...hurt.

"_What_?" she said, now deeply confused.

He looked away. "Nevermind..."

What the hell was his problem now? She had many theories, each one as unlikely as the other, and some of them so..._horrifying _that she was afraid to fully indulge them. They walked in silence for a little while longer.

"Do you...know what's coming next?" he asked, clearing his throat.

"A trial of mind over matter--logic in the face of fire," she said. She had already read through the next few pages, and at least looked over the remaining sections.

"Fire?" asked Malfoy. "Actual fire?"

"I don't think so," she said thoughtfully. "It's more like--emotional 'fire.' Something emotionally strenous to prove you can put logic over fear."

"Wow, that sounds like fun," he said sarcastically. He moved a few steps ahead of her, walking directly in her path.

"What are you doing?" she asked, now quite exasperated with having to ceaselessy question his motives.

"It could be dangerous," he said expressly.

"And...?"

"Well--I--said I would protect you," he said, as if it were obvious. "I swore an oath to Scarhead--"

"I don't need you to protect me," she said superciliously, hardly believing the words as they came out of her mouth. She never in a million years would have imagined she would have to say something like that to _Malfoy _of all people.

He smirked. "No," he said softly. "You really don't, do you?"

She sped past him and continued on down the hall, wishing she could shake the memory of his words out of her head.

000

The tunnel emptied into another cavern. Draco looked around--it seemed to be empty. That should have made him feel better, but instead he felt quite a bit worse. Hermione looked just as wary as he did. He moved a little closer to her.

Once they got close enough to see the other end of the cave, Draco could see the exit. No doors, no fire, no traps--it seemed it was just an open passageway in the cave wall. Somehow, he felt even worse. They were both moving very cautiously now.

"What else did Black say was in here?" he said, trying to hide the nervousness in his voice.

"Well..." replied Granger slowly. "When Regulus returned through the cave, he placed the Horcrux he retrieved back in its original resting place. He also said the magic of the cave wasn't too pleased with having a bit of Voldemort inside here. So it--I suppose you could say it upped the security a little bit."

"What does that mean?"

There was a rustling noise behind them. "I think we're about to find out," she said in an alarmed voice. They both turned around. The cave, once empty, was now swarming with tiny creatures. They were all identical, about the size of a fist. They seemed to be made of condensed black smoke, which shifted slighty as they floated along the floor and walls, swarming like insects. Draco saw hundreds of miniscule eyes glaring at him, glowing an angry red in the darkness.

"What are those?" he whispered.

"I'm not sure..." she said, staring at them critically. She thought for a moment. The creatures were getting closer. "Oh!" she said suddenly, her eyes lighting up. "Those--I think they're boggarts."

"Boggarts?" said Draco skeptically. "But I thought--"

"No one knows what they look like in their true form!" she said excitedly. "This is actually rather--"

"Fascinating?" snapped Draco. He had obviously chosen the correct word, because she fell silent and looked at him, tearing her eyes away from the ever increasing swarm of doom that was assembling on all sides of them. "No, Granger. Not fascinating. Dangerous and terrifying would probably be more apt descriptors, if you're looking."

"But--think of the scholarly implacations!" she argued. "No one has ever seen a Boggart in their true from--"

"Oh really?" he said contemptuously. "Did it perhaps occur to you, Granger, that no one knows what a Boggart truly looks like because no one who has seem in their true for has lived to tell the tale?" Granger's mouth snapped shut. This seemed to do the trick of getting her to realize the realistic implacations of being stuck in a cave with thousands of Boggarts. Impending doom. Not fascinating!

A cluster of black smoke and glittering red eyes was pushing closer to them.

"_Riddiculus_!" she cried, firing a spell into the cloud. The spell soared through their insubstantial bodies and bounced harmlessly off the floor. "Oh, dear..." she murmured, her eyes wide. Draco's initial instinct was to run away screaming, but he surpressed it. Aside from there being nowhere to go--if the Malfoy name still counted for anything in this world, he was going to prove it. Swallowing he stepped in front of Hermione as the darkness pressed in from all sides. She didn't protest. Draco wasn't even sure she noticed. They were only a few feet from him now...

Granger screamed from behind him. He whirled around. Tiny black creatures were swarming up around her in a cucoon-like cloud. The creatures seemed to fill the very air they were breathing with darkness. The entire cave was now pitch black aside from the thousands of glittering red eyes. Panicked, he grabbed her hand. The darkness was quickly concealing her from sight. She screamed again as the ebb and flow of the inky blackness yanked her out of Draco's grasp and swept her up towards the ceiling. She stared at Draco with wide, fearful eyes, her hand still outstreched downwards towards him. She disappeared into the darkness.

"Hermione!" he screamed, but he was too late--she was gone. He swore very loudly. He barely had a moment to notice that there was a tower of shadows and gleaming red eyes encircling him. He yelled and fired a spell at the shadow, but it sailed right through, leaving only a small hole of whispy black smoke that quickly reclosed. The towering shadow finally enfolded him, obscuring his vision with darkness. He lost all sense of orientation--he seemed to be floating in a dark void. He screamed again. He tried to grab his wand, but he couldn't move...

000

Hermione woke up in a very strange setting. The room she was in was very small and dank, the fabric of the bed and drapes was a stained, tattered white, and the thin mattress she was lying on creaked in protest when she sat up. A beam of golden sun filtered into through the grubby windows, illuminating the swirling clouds of dust she was inhaling.

"Where...?" She furrowed her brow. She was having trouble remembering how exactly she had gotten here.

"Hermione?" asked a voice. She looked in the bunk above her. A tired, sunken face was staring quizically down at her. "What is it?"

"I--I--'' stammered Hermione. The girl above her looked terrible. She was so thin and worn looking that she was hardly recognizable. "Lavender?" she whispered in disbelief.

"Well, yes," said the girl. There was expression on her face that looked like it was trying to be a bemused smile, but couldn't quite make it. "We've only been bunkmates for a year."

"Oh..." said Hermione weakly. "Yes..."

"Are you alright there, Hermione?" asked another voice. Across the very small room was another set of bunk beds. Across was a strech. Hermione had closets at home that were bigger that this room. Home...where was she?

She recognized the other two girls, despite their haggard appearences. One of them she was fairly sure had been in Ravenclaw a few years ahead of her, and the other was a despondant looking Susan Bones.

"Where is this place?" asked Hermione. She felt sore and hungry. She looked at clothes and realized they were rags. "I'm not...where are Harry and Ron?" She felt her tattered pocket. Something was missing. "Where's my wand?"

The girls exchanged significant glances, looking worried.

"_We _don't have _wands_," said Lavender, looking at her as if she were insane.

"Are you sure you're feeling OK, Hermione?" asked the Ravenclaw girl.

Hermione blushed slightly. "I'm fine," she said in a small voice. Something was so wrong here...but she couldn't figure out what it was. Heavy footsteps sounded in a corridor outside the door. Someone pounded harshly on their thin wooden door, rattling it so hard it almost flew off the rusted hinges.

"DUTY STARTS IN FIVE MINUTES." A magically enhanced voice boomed down the hall. The girls around her sighed audibly and grudgingly got up out of bed. Hermione flinched as she saw the cuts and bruises decorating their pale limbs.

"C'mon, Hermione," said Susan gently. "We'd better be off..." Hermione nodded numbly and followed them out of the room. She moved down the corridor, behind her roommates. There were others filtering out of their rooms, both male and female, most young, all looking tired and miserable. They moved slowly down the hall in a docile herd towards a set of open metallic doors.

Hermione gasped as she stepped outside. She was at Hogwarts. At least she thought she was. More likely--she was at the place Hogwarts had once been. The castle was still there, half of it standing strong, and the other half looked like bombed out ruins. The landscape was different too. It had always felt peaceful and alive when she was there, but now it was...dead. Most of the forest looked burned, and many trees had been toppled or blasted into splinters. Even the grass was yellowed and dry, and it crunched stiffly under Hermione's feet as she moved. An icy wind swept across the decimated landscape, shaking the dead plants in a dry hiss that sounded disturbingly like a death rattle.

"What h--happened?" she stammered in shock. Her bunkmates looked concerned again, but Susan gently grabbed her hand and tried to smile.

"When the Final Battle happened...it happened here," she explained patiently. "Most of the castle has been destroyed. The Dark Lord is having us rebuild it..."

"What?" asked Hermione. She could feel tears welling in her eyes. "The Dark Lord? We...no..."

She could see tears welling in Susan's eyes as well. "I know..." whispered Susan, squeezing her hand comfortingly. She smiled sadly. "Some days are harder than others." Susan wiped a tear from her face with the back of her hand. "Oh, goodness..." she said, chuckling despondantly. "Sometimes I think I'll run out of tears to cry, but everyday I find more..."

Hermione found that Susan was right. She, and vast groups of people with similar miserable dispositions and clothing were actually rebuilding the castle, brick by oversized brick, by hand. No magic. Not a single person had a wand, despite the fact that Hermione recognized many of them from school. Every once and awhile someone with a wand would come by and scream at them for no good reason. The "overseer" near Hermione and Susan was a huge hulking woman Hermione eventually recognized as Millicent Bulstrode.

They worked for hours. Hermione was freezing. Her clothes were so thin she felt like each gust of wind was blowing against her bare bones. She turned to find Millicent towering over her hunched figure, staring at her.

"Yes?" she asked. Her polite tone sounded so awkward in her current situation.

" _'Yes?_' Don't give me that attitude, you Mudblooded bitch," she growled. She drew out her wand and slashed Hermione across the face with a cracking sound and a flash of light. Hermione gasped. She brushed her fingertips by her face and saw blood.

"You--you--how _dare _you--" gasped Hermione, angrily rising to her feet.

"Hermione, no--" hissed Susan. She grabbed Hermione by the frayed edge of her shirt and pulled her back down into a squatting position.

"What has gotten into you today?" asked Lavender in bewilderment, after a scowling Millicent had blundered away. Hermione hefted another brick onto the pile in front of her, wordless and furious.

"I don't understand," she moaned, blinking back tears. "This is--wrong. Where are Harry and Ron?" Susan looked at the ground.

"Maybe we should go to the Wall tonight," she said quietly.

"Susy, _no_," hissed Lavender. "That's to dangerous--you were just there last week--"

"We have to," said Susan resolutely, gazing at the miserable expression on Hermione's face.

Later that night, sore and achy from the days work, Hermione followed Susan and the girl she didn't know deep into the remains of the Forbidden Forest. Susan cradled a candle stub in her hands. It illuminated their path with a fragile, flickering light. Dry leaves crunched beneath her feet.

Hermione didn't ask where they were going. They made the entire journey in absolute silence. Lavender threw terrified glances over her shoulder every few seconds. They reached a large tree. It was charred and blackened, but still standing tall.

"_Dumbledore_," said Susan in a soft, trembling voice. The trunk slid open, revealing a shadowed staircase of rotted wood planks. They made their way down into the bowels of the cave underneath the tree. It was about the size of her dorm room at school. The walls were bare and made layers of dirt and fragmented roots. The room was empty expect for a few dead eyed people crowded around a large cardboard plaque. It was covered in countless rows of shaky handwriting. Hermione squinted at the text, and after a second she realized--names. Oh, god--there were hundreds of them. She stepped forward and placed a trembling hand upon the cardboard.

"What is this?" she asked.

"Names of--" Susan's lower lip trembled, but she swallowed hard and forced herself to continue. "--the fallen. In the 2nd Great War." Tears were running silently down her face. "They died trying to fight the Dark Lord." Lavender burst into tears, and Susan raced forward to hug her.

Hermione ran her fingers over the surface of the board. Her eyes fell upon one of the names. _Ron Weasley._

"No..." she whispered, but her intelligent eyes had already traveled down the column. _Molly Weasley. Arthur Weasley. William Weasley. Charles Weasley. Percival Wealsey. Fredrick Weasley. George Weasley. Ginerva Weasley. _"No..." She couldn't breathe. "This can't be..."

"Th--they don't even have graves," sobbed Lavender. "They took the bodies--and--" She cried harder.

Her eyes continued to rove the list. _We remember the sacrifices of our fallen comerades...Nymphadora Tonks. Remus Lupin. Albus Dumbledore. Sirius Black. Harold Potter..._

She couldn't read anymore, her eyes were obscured with tears. "NO!" she choked out. "This can't be!" She whirled around and faced them. "Is this all we have left? Have we given up?"

"We used to m--meet here, under this tree. The resistance. But then...everything went--bad. You s--said it yourself," said Susan, her voice tight. "We..." Her lip trembled again.

"We have no hope left."

Hermione couldn't speak. She whirled around and raced from the hideout, ignoring the strangled protests of her friends.

_You've failed them all! _A voice in her head was screaming at her as she ran. _You're all alone! You've failed everyone you've ever loved, and now you've lost them! You've failed everyone! It's all your fault! You failed them all. You failed! FAILED! And now they're dead! ALL OF THEM!_

She ran across the dead, darkened grounds, feeling a cold, heavy weight sinking in her chest. She wanted to scream, but she couldn't find the voice in her tightened throat. Tears obscured her sight as she ran. She didn't know where she was going. Something told her she should be somewhere, now. She turned and raced towards the opposite side of the grounds, towards the Whomping Willow. The path felt oddly familiar.

Someone was standing under the tree. It's branches were still. A shadowed figure in a sweeping black cloak was leaning casually against the trunk. The figure raised his wand and cast a Lighting Spell. Hermione's breath caught in her throat. Was it a guard?

"Hermione?" asked the figure. His voice sounded familiar. "You're late, Granger. I thought you weren't coming." She relaxed slightly in the absence of hostility, but was still apprehensive. She moved closed. The figure extended something towards her in one of his hands. "I brought the usual," said the figure. She wasn't sure what to do. She stared at him.

"Oh, come on," he said impatiently. He pulled the black hood off of his face, revealing a pale face and a crop of shiny, platinum blond hair. It was Malfoy. "I don't have all night here." He extended his hand farther. The object moved into the light--it was a book. She gaped at it, finally accepting it into her hands.

"Why did you bring me this?" she asked in disbelief.

"Why?" he sounded bewildered. "I don't know...you like to read don't you?"

"Y--yes..." she said in a strangled voice. "Tell me--" she snapped her head up and locked eyes with him. "What happened. How did we get here?"

He looked at her strangely. "You fought," he said flatly. "You lost."

"But I--Voldemort wanted you dead," she said. A wild look crossed Malfoy's features.

"Don't say that name!" he hissed. He scowled. "He welcomed me back when I brought him one of the Horcruxes and practically handed him Potter on a golden platter." He shrugged. Hermione backed away in horror.

"You--what?" she stammered.

"I handed him one of the Horcruxes," he said, as if it were obvious. "And I led Potter into a well placed trap."

The book fell from her hands. "No..." she murmured.

"What was I supposed to do? I'm not about to fight on a losing side. We Malfoys are survivors."

_This couldn't be real. _Lavender and Susan were running towards her.

"Hermione!" cried Susan. Malfoy looked at them angrily.

"What are they doing here?" he demanded. "They _can't _know I've come here."

"Hermione--" She never finished her sentence. Malfoy pulled out his wand. A flash of green slammed into her chest and she fell to the ground, dead as the world around her.

"NO!" screamed Hermione. "What are you doing?"

"Be quiet, Granger!" he growled.

"You bastard!" cried a tearful Susan. She ran towards Malfoy. He called out another curse, and she fell to the ground, bleeding from her mouth, nose, and the huge gaping slash across her chest. Hermione collapsed forward and cradled the dying Susan in her arms. Blood poured out onto the dried, yellow grass.

"Give me your wand," Hermione begged Malfoy.

"You know I can't do that," he drawled, crossing his arms. He watched impassively as the life ebbed out of Susan.

"I'm sorry," whispered Susan. She coughed up blood in jet-like spurts. "I told Auntie Amelia I'd keep fighting, even if she...went away...I...m sorry..." She fell limp in Hermione arms.

Hermione was crying. _This can't be happening. This was wrong. It was all wrong. _

"HOW CAN YOU DO THIS?" she screamed at Malfoy, he eyes screwed shut.

"This is who I am, Granger," he said harshly. "You can't see that?"

"NO!" She stood up. "THIS ISN'T REAL! IT'S ALL WRONG!"

"Is it?" he hissed. "You tried, you failed. This is reality."

"IT'S NOT! IT'S NOT!" She was screaming like a toddler in the bout of a furious tantrum. She stopped suddenly, reaching a moment of sudden clarity. "It's not."

"This is the real world, Granger," he said softly.

"No," she said. Tears poured down her face, but her voice was strong. "No, it's not."

"Why not?" he sneered.

"Because I won't let it," she said quietly. "I won't let the world be this way."

"Too late," he growled.

"It's not," she met his eyes unflinchingly. "Never." He stormed forward, pointing his wand between her eyes. He glared at her, an ugly look on his face.

"Is this real enough for you?" he hissed menacingly.

"No." She smiled sadly. "This isn't you. You can't fool me."

"WHY NOT?" he screamed, frustrated.

"Because I have no choice." Tears were leaking down her face. "This isn't real." She stood a little taller.

"I believe in a better world. And I always will. I have to."

There was a blinding flash of light, and Hermione was once again engulfed in darkness.

000

Draco was walking in Diagon Alley next to his mother. She smiled at him. Her blue eyes were cold--as usual--but he knew that she cared for him more than anything in the world. In fact, he had exploited that fact on more than one occasion to get his way.

He heard someone screaming from behind him, and whirled around. In the middle of the street, a figure in a black cloak and hood was firing curses into the crowd. It wasn't a Death Eater's mask, but the hood obscured most of his face. He was killing people in the street at random. The street was littered with bodies. People were running and screaming.

His mother gasped from beside him. He stepped between her and the figure. He was the Head of the household--he had to protect her. The figure advanced towards them slowly. He seemed to be reveling in the mayhem and destruction he was causing. He approached them, leveling his wand at Narcissa.

"Leave her alone," cried Draco, whipping out his wand. "Why are you doing this?"

"I enjoy it," said the figure. His mouth was visible under the flap of the black hood, and a twisted smile curled onto it. Furious, Draco fired a spell at the figure. They dodged and flung themselves forward and backwards, dueling. They seemed to be pretty evenly matched. They circled each other, moving farther and farther down the street--at least they were moving away from his mother.

"Why are you fighting me?" asked the figure.

"You tried to kill my mother!" growled Draco.

"I killed a lot of people," he smiled again. "You didn't care about them, did you?"

"Shut up!" he hissed. "Who are you?"

The figure laughed. "You know who I am." Draco blocked another curse. He fired a Misfacio Curse at the figure, who dodged it with equal agility.

"I don't," he grunted in response.

"I'm as powerful as you are," said the figure, sidestepping gracefully. "And as intelligent. And as strong." The figure held up his hands. They were covered in blood. Great red streams of it dripped down his sleeves.

The figure jumped up, swooping away out of sight. Draco looked around through narrowed eyes. "I revel in the chaos I bring," called the voice of the figure. It echoed hollowly, seeming to eminate from all directions. "It's an honor to bring it." Draco didn't respond. He heard a footfall behind him. Smiling darkly to himself, he waited until the last possible second before whirling around, attempting to catch his opponent off guard.

"_AVADA KEDAVRA_!" he screamed. Narcissa Malfoy's clear blue eyes widened in fear as the Killing Curse sped towards her. Draco stood paralyzed, wand still aloft, eyes equally as wide.

"Draco..." she whispered. The curse slammed into her chest and she toppled downwards, dead before she hit the ground.

"NOOOO!" he screamed in despair. He raced towards her, but the black shrouded figure swooped down in front of him and held him back.

"You killed her," hissed the figure.

"NO!" he cried desperately. "It was an accident!"

"You did it on purpose," countered the figure. He pulled his sleeve up and pressed his arm next to Draco's. Two identical Dark Marks were side by side, seared into pale skin. "You wanted it, just as you wanted this. It burned like fire and ice when it appeared, and you felt the _glory _it brought you. And you _liked _it."

"No!" Draco struggled widely, trying to free his wrists from his opponent's grasp. He glared at the figure, something dawning on him. "You'd like to think so, wouldn't you...father." The figure laughed coldly.

"You're a killer."

"NO!"

"There's blood on your hands." The figure continued to laugh. "There always has been. It's your fault she's dead."

Draco broke away and back peddled, falling to his knees on the ground. His hands were coated in thick red blood. It flowed down his arms, soaking into his sleeves. "No..." he moaned.

"This is you," hissed the figure, advancing on him. "It always has been. Did you think you could escape your destiny? This is who you are..."

"No, it's not..." whimpered Draco. "I'm not--I'm not a monster." He scrambled backwards on his back, kicking his legs frantically and scuttling like a crab.

"You think so..." cackled the figure. He raised a pale hand to his hood, slowly pealing it backwards to reveal his face.

From his vantage point on the ground Draco watched in horror as the hood fell away.

His own face was staring back at him, smiling the same twisted smile that had been taunting him. Draco Malfoy watched his own face broaden into an even more dangerous smile. It wasn't his father. All along, it was...

"You see..." Draco cackled, as he gasped on the ground. "We are the same."

000

**AN: **Thank you all for your sympathy.

**Onigiri Momoko:** The that's cheating reference hearkens back to the advice Mikhala the vampire gave Ron in the pub. Go back and read it if you don't believe me!

**ali-lou:** Any lines stolen from Buffy are unintentional...it's just so deeply ingrained into my subconcious...lol.

**Allied-inspiration: **You can see I agree with you...

**SilverShiver: **The first riddle I made up, and the one about the key I made up (which is why it sucked). The middle two I found on the internet.

**Niki:** Voldemort was all obsessed with Hogwarts. He wanted a relic from Ravenclaw's tomb, so he made Regulus go and fetch it for him. Then he turned it into a Horcrux and made Regulus go put it back in the tomb. Just to clarify.

_Next chapter: _Look for some significant emotional drama angst. Yay!


	12. Within and Without You

Hermione awoke in darkness, but it had a hardness to it, a firm reality that you never notice is missing in dreams until you wake up again. She coughed, as coldness seeped out of her lungs and was replaced with the moist air of the cave. She stood up slowly, dizzy and disoriented. Darkness was all around her, in blackened clouds that ebbed and flowed at her feet like liquid. She was sitting on the cave floor, but the ache in her limbs told her she had probably landed there after falling from somewhere quite a bit higher up.

She looked around, her stomach sick with sudden alarm. Where was Malfoy? Had he been…well, actually--she had no idea what the boggarts would do to him. According to popular theory, a single boggart that has properly subdued a victim moves on to feed on their fear until the victim is completely drained of energy and feeling. Cases that extreme were rare, but it did beg the question as to what thousands of boggarts would do, and if she had to guess--she decided it would probably be quite fatal.

"Draco?" she called. She took a tentative step forward. She marveled as the cloud parted, allowing her to pass through along an empty stone floor. She couldn't see him, everything was obscured by dark clouds and glittering eyes. "Draco, can you hear me? Where are you?"

No answer. Her voice echoed uselessly around the cave. She cursed silently. What now? She had no idea what spells to use. In fact, her instinct told her it would probably be best to get out of this cave as soon as possible. She continued to wade around in the heavy, dark fog.

Finally, her eyes settled on a flash of silver in the corner. There was a cluster of the wretched little creatures, pulsing and piling on top of each other. She lit her wand and moved closer. In the silent rustle of dark, cloudy bodies, she heard someone gasping. She whipped out her wand.

"_Perfringo_!" she cried. The cloud shook and separated for the most fleeting of seconds, but it was long enough for Hermione to catch sight of Draco's pale, terrified face. His eyes were screwed shut and he was flailing around in the darkness in terrified spasms, a terrified expression on his face. The darkness seeped back into its former place, concealing him from view.

Hermione frowned. Only one option struck her. It was not a pleasant one. She shivered as she remembered the nightmare she had just broken free of, and she did not relish another. But she gripped her wand in her outstretched hand and uttered the spell anyway.

"_Librum Memoria_!" she cried, aiming at the spot she knew Malfoy to be. She was rushing though a dark, whirling tunnel. She realized she had no one to guide her through it.

"Draco!" she screamed. "Can you hear me? Where are you?"

Her feet slammed on solid ground. Or at least--what could be called solid in the strange, ethereal world of thoughts and memories. She looked around. She was in Diagon Alley--though, like in her vision, everything was dead and deserted. The streets were littered with the bodies of the fallen. Even the air seemed thick with fire and destruction.

A dark figure in a cloak turned towards Narcissa Malfoy. Emotionlessly, he raised his wand--and killed her. She fell to the ground. Hermione gasped in horror.

Narcissa Malfoy rushed forward. The hooded figure raised his wand. She fell to the ground again. And again. And again. Hermione watched the scene repeat itself over and over again in an unbreakable, recursive loop. One moment of perfect agony. Hermione turned around and saw something she hadn't noticed before. There was another figure huddled on the ground, watching the scene play over and over and shaking with terror. Hermione raced over to him.

"Draco," she said gently. He wasn't looking at her. He was staring fixedly at the scene in front of him with wide, terrified eyes. "Draco, look at me," she pleaded. She knelt down beside him and grasped his hand. "Please...we need to get out of here..."

"No..." he finally tore his eyes away from the scene and looked at her. "I'm always here..."

"This isn't real," she said insistently. "You have to get out."

"It is real," he whispered.

"It's not," she countered. "Please believe me...it's an illusion. It's just your fear. It's not real."

"No..." He looked at the hooded figure. "You don't understand. It's real...it's real, I can't leave...because I'll always be here...it's _me_..."

Hermione wasn't sure what he was talking about, but she was sure she didn't care. They had to get out of here. Now. She raised her wand.

"_Occludo Mentis_!" Nothing happened. Hermione looked back at Draco. He was still gazing fixedly at the figure, muttering in terror.

"Draco, look at me," she said, more harshly this time. "Please..." Her features softened. "Please, I can't do this by myself." She gazed seriously into his eyes. "You have to help me. You have to want to leave." He finally looked at her, but didn't speak.

"Do you want to leave?" He nodded slowly. "Take my hand." He extended his hand and she grasped it gently, repeating the spell. She felt a sudden jolt, and she was suddenly back in the boggart infested cave.

Hermione was standing, and Draco was on the ground next to her. She was still holding his hand, which she quickly let go of, feeling uncertain and seeing the potential for more awkwardness. He didn't seem to notice. She looked at him. He was still huddled on the ground. Hermione felt a pang.

God, she thought, he looked so--broken. All the swaggering and smirking she was used to seeing from him seemed like they had come from a different person now. NO! Don't let him fool you—he's still a jerk. A big, pathetic jerk in a pathetic heap on the ground…oh, dammit…

"Malfoy," she began. "Draco..." He looked at her with tear stained eyes, and then quickly looked away, facing the wall.

"Are you happy now? You are, aren't you? Everyone wants to see me dragged in the dirt…get away from me, Granger," he said in a strangled voice, burying his face in his hands. He was doing something to his arm that she couldn't see...

Hermione felt her throat constrict. She was in a freezing cave, now trying to work through an extremely traumatizing boggart attack, and trying to find a piece of the soul of the darkest wizard in the world. Oh, yes, she was happy. She was bloody ecstatic. "No, I am not _happy_," she said curtly.

"I'm...I'm a monster..." he replied, gritting his teeth. He sounded distant. "He said it was perfect. He lied….everyone lied to me all along… 'This is your birth right, my son,' my son…_mine_. Forever."

"No you're not a monster, stop being so dramatic..." she protested softly. She knelt down next to him. _Oh, Lord—he's gone completely crackers, hasn't he? I suppose it had to happen sometime…_

"I am," he said. "I tried to deny it, I tried, I got lost, I don't even know what I want...I thought I could have it both ways but I can't...it's blood, it runs in your blood and there's not escaping your destiny..." He ran his hands through his hair, gripping handfuls of blond as he went.

"Destiny?" she said dismissively. "What is it with wizards and _destiny_? Destiny is just a silly excuse for people who don't know what to do with their lives," she argued. Her practical protests sounded strangely out of place, given the situation.

Malfoy shrugged. No protests, no attitude, no snarky remarks. He just sat there, looking empty and lost. He was...a mess. He was still scratching at his forearm.

"What are you doing?" she demanded, her voice somewhat sharp. She pulled his sleeve away to get a better look at his arm and gasped. There was a series of long scratches over the Dark Mark on his arm, as if he had been trying, quite ineffectively, to remove it. "Stop that," she said in alarm. He didn't seem to be listening.

"Can't go both ways," he muttered. Hermione wondered if she had done more harm than good forcibly pulling him out of his nightmare. He seemed quite confused. "It's there or it isn't, and if you're marked, you have something to live up to..."

"Stop!" she repeated shrilly, grabbing his arm.

He pulled away violently. "Get off me Granger!" he yelled angrily. "I'm going to get rid of it! You can't stop me! Leave me alone!"

"No," she said, her voice shaking. "You have to stop that! You're--you're hurting yourself..."

"It hurts worse having it on there," he said wildly. "I can't! I can't stand to look at it for another second! Fucking thing! I HATE—" A spasm of fear flickered across his face. "No, no, no, no, once it's gone..." He looked desperate. "You don't understand—_they told me it would be easy_... 'Just like riding a broomstick…hahaha…' …I have to get rid of it!" He struggled against Hermione's grasp for a moment, finally throwing her off in a show of strength that caught her somewhat off guard. She landed on her butt, hard, falling against the wall. _Ouch._

"Stop it. RIGHT NOW." She imagined her voice came out a little more harshly than she intended, in light of her now very sore arse. To her surprise, he actually listened.

"Look—Draco..." She snatched up his arm and laid it down gently on his leg, but kept it pinned there with her own hand. "It doesn't have to mean what you think...it's—" She brushed her fingertips softly against his somewhat mangled forearm and winced despite herself. "It's just a scar."

"What the hell would you know about it?" he began, his voice harsh, but cracking slightly. Hermione stretched down the collar of her t-shirt to reveal an area of skin near her heart, a few inches below her collarbone. There was a faint series of circular marks, like an ancient, healed burn.

"It's a scar...see? I was in the Department of Mysteries last year, and I was fighting, and I got hurt. But I healed. It's a scar. It's there because—you're fighting."

Draco looked at the ground. "Against you..." he muttered sourly.

"Oh, come on…There's more to you than that mark on your arm," she told him. What was she saying? Did she really, honestly believe all this, or was she just trying to help him? Did she even know herself?

He hung his head again. "I think—I think I'm going mad...I mean—" He clenched his hands in to fists and put them over his face. "For awhile, all I had was hate, and I thought I could live with that. Because it was easy, and simple, and familiar, and…oh, bloody hell... And now—I can't even hate you properly anymore. And—fuck—I'm terrified all the time. I feel like I'm going to die every second of every day, and then—and then—it changed when I—he offered me freedom and I just stood there—he offered HER freedom, and I—I... Maybe I'm dead, already, I just haven't noticed yet... Big damn difference there is…"

He wiped off his face with the corner of his sleeve and swore quietly. She had never seen him genuinely in pain before—not really. She had watched him snivel and whine quite a few times to emphasize the onset of minor injuries, but now it seemed he was really, truly miserable, and it was etched all over his face. At that moment, Hermione realized, he didn't really look like a spoiled child anymore. To her, he was suddenly more… human. If he was this messed up in the head…then—he hid it surprisingly well. How could someone be this torn apart inside and still walk around like everything was normal, still throwing around insults and spells and snide remarks?

"Come on," she said, pulling him up to a standing position. She was feeling quite uncomfortable from his outpouring of emotion. In all the years she had known him—she felt guilty. He was still a _person_ wasn't he? A bigoted, sniveling, miserable, attractive snob of a person… "We should keep moving."

He nodded numbly and followed her as she walked. The boggart swarms parted like the Red Seas as she passed through them, Draco in her wake. The farther they got from the cave, the more like his old self he seemed to become. He looked a lot calmer, perhaps even a bit more confident. At least he had stopped shaking. Had her words actually helped him? Did he actually care about what she had to say?

"Draco..." she bit her lip. Curiosity was gnawing at her. "Who was that hooded figure?"

He laughed bitterly but didn't speak.

"It was an illusion, you know that," she said gently. He looked away, shoving his hands into his pockets. She sighed. "You don't think so, do you?"

He looked frustrated. "How can I?" he demanded venomously. "I just...I've worked my whole life for..." He looked at his mangled forearm. "--this. And now I have it, and..." He clenched his fist, causing more blood to ooze from his arm. "It's here. It's _real_. I don't like being this way. Nothing makes sense anymore. And I'm...trapped."

"You're not," she said, shaking her head. "You always have a choice."

"That's easy for you to say," he said with bitterness in his voice. They passed out of the cave and paused within the next passage.

"Don't get hostile," she said smoothly. "It's a poor defense. And..." She wasn't exactly sure what was wrong, but she had an idea. "Look, Draco--I know that Harry and Ron and I aren't really a good example of this, but--you don't always have to turn into your parents. I mean--" She held up the diary. "Look at Regulus and Sirius..." She grasped his hands. "Maybe...you have a different path ahead of you. I think so…"

He laughed hollowly. "I thought you didn't believe in destiny."

"I don't," she responded. "But I do believe in _people_. It's never, ever too late to change."

"You really believe that?" he asked, sneering, but there was a hint of wanting in his eyes. "You think that people can actually change? How?" The look on his face stunned her, but she hid it. Was he looking to her for reassurance, for... a way out?

"They change because they _want_ to," she said emphatically. She looked squarely into his silver eyes. "You have to make a choice." Malfoy stared at her seriously, no longer moving forward, looking pensive. She turned and continued slowly on without him, giving him some time alone with his thoughts.

Centuries of deeply ingrained prejudice didn't really excuse his actions for the past six years, but...did he really want to change? He had a lot to deal with--maybe even as much as Harry, only his problems were more within himself than without. He was struggling internally with something just as heavy and dark and all consuming as anything, and that fact that he was at least trying to fight it--to find his own way despite pressures to the contrary--meant everything. She didn't quite understand it, but she really didn't like to see him suffer this way, former Death Eater or not.

And she lied. Lied to him. She hated lying. She was just trying to make him feel better, because it was what he needed to hear. She wanted to believe people could change. She _did_ believe it--but the realist in her told her that sometimes they couldn't--not totally. Some people would always, no matter how much they tried, retain something inescapable within themselves.

Hermione was always very intuitive--she could practically tell what people were thinking before they could. Malfoy's motivations, however, had eluded her lately. Now she could see it all, realization crashing down upon her like a tidal wave. There it was, glaring her right in the face, wretchedly obvious after all this time. She didn't know why, but it had hit her very strongly the last time she had looked him in the eye. There was something...there. Mostly when she looked in people's eyes she saw--well--eyes. Pupils and retinas. Nothing romantic or interesting in the least.

But now...she felt like she could see right through him, right past that liquid silver into the howling void inside him, dark, ice cold and screaming silently. It was quite a lot to ask of her--even if he wasn't doing it intentionally--she wasn't sure she was capable of being responsible for his soul. To be honest--it terrified her. Terrified her because it was dark and empty and ran much, much more deep then she had ever suspected. She had always seen a pretentious, spoiled child when she looked at him. Nothing but a loudmouthed bully. But now she saw something darker, something frightening. And she worried that if she stayed close to him--she would be sucked right into that cold void inside him as well.

She suppressed a shiver, because somewhere in the back of her mind--she had to wonder if it was too late to escape...for both of them.

000

He caught up to her. "Thank you for that..." he said in a hoarse voice. "Back there. I guess...I owe you one again." He narrowed his eyes. "But--don't think this changes anything between us, Granger," he added in a quick, harsh tone.

"Anything between us?" she asked incredulously, raising an eyebrow. "What exactly is there between us, Malfoy?"

"Nothing," he said immediately, cursing inwardly. She sighed exasperatedly. "And don't think there ever will be! I still hate you!"

"Hmm..." she said in an extremely unconcerned voice. She sounded unconvinced.

Damn her! Did she think she knew him now? Damn her! Damn her for being in his life, and damn her for being in his head! Damn her for seeing him when he was crying like a goddamn child! Damn her! Damn her for being unconcerned! Damn her for telling him off! Damn her for not being afraid of him!

"Well, you don't have to owe me anything," she said dismissively. "I did it because...it was the right thing to do."

Damn her stupid sense of self-righteousness! Damn her for saving his goddamn life when she could have just let him die on her stupid front yard! He could have been spared all this goddamn misery and confusion! Damn her for saving his goddamn life _again_! Damn her for making it so he couldn't just hate her like the filthy Mudblood she was! Damn her for being _her_! What couldn't he hate her? Hate was one thing he was particularly talented with. She was driving him crazy!

He shrugged. "Well--I do anyway. I said I'd protect you." He shoved his hands in his pockets again. "Fine ruddy job, I did of that one, too..." he grumbled. Great job, Draco. Way to be worthless. How does it feel to be saved by that goddamn--Mudblood--again? Centuries of family honor, down the bloody drain...

And...the truth was...he lied to her. He was the monster. It wasn't just an illusion. He had done more, sunk deeper, done worse things than she probably suspected. No matter how smart she was, there was an innocence about her--she didn't really know him yet. She couldn't. He had grown up in a world that was far more dark and complex than the world Draco had seen in the Granger's living room. Her world.

His world was full of pain, and power, and the Dark Arts his father had taught him since he was old enough to hold a wand. And he had _liked_ it. It was fascinating to him; it always had been. He practically had a special talent for it. His family had been breeding him, quite literally, for this life for hundreds, perhaps thousands of years. He liked controlling people. Manipulating them. He liked watching them get hurt. He actually _enjoyed_ it. How could she possibly understand that? How could she possibly understand him? The last few minutes had been a dark blur. He couldn't remember the details exactly--expect that he had been trapped in some kind of intense nightmare and she had pulled him out. The nightmare he remembered, quite vividly--but everything else...he remembered seeing her, helping him, talking to him, trying to pull him back from the brink he was teetering on...and why? He wasn't sure what exactly he had said to her--probably something he shouldn't have. Why did she have to do that? He wished things could be the way there were before, simpler, more divided into _her_ kind and _his_ kind, with no exceptions, and no--guilt.

Hermione rolled her eyes. "I told you before--I don't need you to protect me--"

"Yeah, I know, Granger," he said, his mouth twisting into a small grin that looked suspiciously like a smirk, a little bit of his usual personality showing through the melancholy air surrounding him. "You only need me to save your arse some of the time."

"I'll have you know I had that situation completely under control," she countered playfully, raising her chin in mock defiance.

"Oh, right," he said skeptically, sneering at her, but without malice. He was actually enjoying himself a little bit. This felt more normal. For the first time in the past few hellish hours, he started to feel more comfortable, and less like he was on the verge of falling apart. "Were you going to win that fight before or after you got flattened by several tons of stone wall?"

"I was going to wait 'till I was flattened, lie in wait for a few hours, then spring up and finish him off," she explained in mock sincerity. "The element of surprise is everything."

"Maybe several tons of masonry falling on your head might be a good thing," he said innocently. "Could be the only force on this earth powerful enough to make your hair lie flat."

She glared at him, looking slightly outraged for a moment, but quickly cooling off. "Nothing is that powerful," she replied, a small smile playing on her lips. "But maybe you could lend me some of your hair gel. You seem to be wearing enough on your head everyday to coat the entire kingdom of Britain several times over."

He smiled in a self-satisfied way. Oh, yes, definitely back to normal. But what _was_ normal for them, anyway? Her slapping him across the face? Him saying deliberately hurtful things to her?

"Maybe if you ask nicely," was his smooth reply.

000

Hermione inhaled slowly as the reached the end of the tunnel, stopping in front of the entranceway before them. This is it, she thought to herself, trying to calm her frazzled nerves.

"Is this the end?" asked Malfoy, looking around in confusion. Hermione could understand his puzzlement, they were standing in front of a solid wall. It was covered with an arch-like pattern of strange symbols and designs, but nevertheless--it was completely solid.

"Yes," she said, inching closer to the wall, but still to uneasy to touch it.

"Um...right then," he said, crossing his arms. "How do you propose we get through it?"

Hermione glanced at the wall apprehensively. "We--eh--jump," she offered.

"I see," he said, looking at the wall with a raised eyebrow. "And what's the point of this lovely little task?"

The point? Well..."According to Regulus, it's the final door...it's supposed to take us right into the tomb. I believe it's meant to be a sort of a test of will--you have to believe you can go through, or you'll crash right into it."

"That doesn't sound too horrible," he said, seeming pleasantly surprised.

"It's not..." she said. It was fairly easy. How many times had she passed through the barrier to Platform 9 and 3/4's? "I suppose it's meant to assure that anyone who comes here, even Muggles, would have at least a cursory familiarity--or understanding of magic. I suppose she didn't want just anyone wandering in here, no matter how clever they were..." she said, thinking aloud.

She threw a sideways glance at Malfoy, who was smirking. "Don't say it," she warned him.

"I didn't say anything," he protested, the smarmy grin still adorning his pale features.

"No, but you were going to," she assured him, turning away. He was still grinning.

"OK..." she backed away from the wall and faced it squarely, balling her hands into fists. "Ready..." she said under her breath. "One...Two..." Malfoy stepped up next to her, grabbing her arm gently just above the elbow.

"Three," he finished. They both ran at the wall and jumped. Hermione felt a slight pressure on her skin as they passed through, then she felt herself tumbling onto a cold stone floor.

They were in a beautiful room with a high, vaulted ceiling. Though the room wasn't huge, Hermione had to crane her neck to see all the way up to the top. There was a cluster of softly glowing spheres of light, bobbing gently in the air where the ceiling reached it's highest, conical point, which filled the entire room with a warm, white light. The floor was marble and as reflective as glass--it looked like the serene surface of lake in the winter, icy, deep, and black as midnight. Hermione could see her own face staring back at her from the opposite angle, bright eyes glaring out determinedly from an uncharacteristically pale face.

Her eyes fell on the monument in the center of the room. It was a large tomb. Hermione climbed to her feet and approached it slowly. It was constructed out of the same smoothly shining material as the floor, though the edges were decorated with stone flowers, beautifully carved, heavy white petals that shimmer opalescently in the soft light.

In front of it was a ledge, elevated like a pedestal, and sitting on the ledge--Hermione's breath caught in her throat--was a bronze chalice, inlaid with smooth blue stones.

"Is that it?" asked Draco lazily in his usual drawling voice.

"Yes," said Hermione, barely able to contain her excitement. _Ravenclaw's chalice. _A fascinating object, tainted by Voldemort or not. The chalice had been around for over a thousand years. Ravenclaw's interest in alchemy had led her to research in the Principles of Exodus--that is--creating a Philosopher's stone. The chalice was the fruit of a lifetime of labor. Though not the key to actual eternal life, the chalice had the power to restore youth. The only stipulation was the chalice's magic couldn't work more than once on the same person. However, Hermione thought to herself, it was still an amazing device. The existence of the chalice had actually created the first rumors, and later the widespread Muggle legend of the "Holy Grail." Regulus had included some of this information in his diary, and some Hermione had gathered on his own. It was all rather...fascinating.

"Can we just, you know," he said shrugging. "Go get it?"

"Yes," said Hermione again. "We should be able to simply pick it up and leave, no more obstacles."

"About bloody time," said Malfoy. He strode boldly forward, extending his arm toward the chalice, but he stopped suddenly, his face confused. "Ahh..." he muttered, gripping his forearm.

"What is it?" asked Hermione, rushing forward in alarm.

"Nothing," said Malfoy, his brow furrowed. "It's just--ow..." He cursed under his breath, pushing back his sleeve to reveal the Dark Mark on his arm. "It doesn't--I mean--it's burned a few times, since I left--it always does--but..." He shook his head. He extended his hand forward again, apparently deciding to ignore the pain.

Hermione gasped. The mark was burning--actually burning, with a curl of smoke rising from it. It glowed red. Draco inhaled sharply.

"What the hell--" he began, but he didn't have time to finish. The tomb emitted a sudden, sphere-like aura of light. There was a cracking sound, and Malfoy was hurled backwards through the wall of the tomb, disappearing through the wall with a yelp.

There was a faint rumbling from within the room Hermione was standing in. The tomb glowed again. Determined, Hermione lunged forwards and snatched the cup into her hands. The rumbling stopped. Another apparition appeared, floating above the tomb. It was a woman, pale and transparent, as though made out of colored smoke. She was wearing a deep blue dress, and had bright blue eyes and flowing, jet black hair.

"Merlin's ghost," exclaimed Hermione under her breath, startled.

The woman turned her gaze down towards her, cocking her head and looking perplexed. "No," she said regally. "Not quite..."

000

Draco landed upside down outside the tomb, still cursing wildly. He scrambled to his feet and threw himself, shoulder first, back into the entrance to the central tomb. It was probably good that he ran at it shoulder first, because his shoulder collided painfully with the wall, and he found himself sprawled on the ground once again.

"Bloody--fucking--" he grumbling, standing up and holding his throbbing shoulder. He was now officially stuck.

"Dammit, Hermione," he said angrily, kicking the wall helplessly. What _now_?

000

"You're--not a ghost--" said Hermione slowly, staring at the apparition.

"No, I'm not," said the woman. "Not really. Neither soul nor spirit, but enough memory and feeling and magic to watch for all eternity." She stared at Hermione through narrowed eyes. "Who are you?" she demanded.

"My name is Hermione Granger," she said, trying to appear calm.

"What brings you to this place? Are you the one who defiled my chalice?" She pointed accusingly at the cup in Hermione's hands.

"No!" said Hermione quickly. "No, I would never..."

"Then what brings you to this place?" she asked, still looking suspicious. "What do you want with my chalice? Youth? I sincerely doubt you need it. A sick mother, perhaps? Grandmother?"

"No..." said Hermione. "I'm actually--" She sucked in a breath. "I'm here to take it and destroy it."

"_Destroy_ it?" said the woman incredulously. She looked angry. The walls trembled again.

"I'm sorry," apologized Hermione. Probably should have kept her mouth shut...she did have that problem occasionally. "I'm a student at Hogwarts!" she blurted out.

The rumbling stopped. "Are you?" she asked, brightening in curiosity. "Which house?"

"I'm in Gryffindor..." said Hermione.

"Oh," said the woman, looking disappointed.

"I was almost in Ravenclaw," divulged Hermione. "But I opted for Gryffindor instead...the Hat seemed quite insistent, but I made up my mind."

"You must be quite bright, to make it this far," said the woman. "There's a bit of me in that Hat, did you know that? But...I suppose if you made up your mind...there's really no going back, is there?"

"Er...no..." said Hermione. This conversation seemed rather pointless. Maybe she should make a lunge for the door--but on the other hand...this--spirit, thing, whatever it was seemed to be controlling the cave. "Why did you throw my--er--friend out of the cave?" she asked.

"Friend?" said the woman in disgust. "He bore the mark of a serpent--a cursed mark of a serpent. Full of Dark Magic. I don't tolerate certain things...especially after the first one came in here...he returned with my chalice _defiled_..."

Regulus...though Hermione. "There's...a very Dark Wizard in our era," began Hermione. It was so complicated. It sounded odd boiled down into this form. "He's been trying to cleanse the world of Muggleborns and Muggles...we've been fighting him for a long time...years. He's Slytherin's heir..." The woman's eyes flashed at the mention of that name. "He's a bit...obsessed with Hogwarts, so he when he made his Horcruxes, he used things from the founders...Slytherin's locket...your chalice..."

"Horcrux--es?" she said in alarm. "As in more than one division of the soul? That's..."

"He's terrible. I'm sorry I had to disturb your rest," said Hermione again. The woman shook her head.

"Do not apologize for such a justified action."

"Oh...OK..." she said, not quite sure how to respond. "Thank you--er--Lady Ravenclaw."

The woman nodded regally. "It takes great courage, as well as cleverness for a witch to fight," she said. "Godric always told me that."

"Erm...Lady Ravenclaw..." Hermione bit her lip...she shouldn't ask, should she? Maybe it was just a crazy dream...still... "Are you Muggleborn?"

She looked shocked. "I--"

"I'm sorry," said Hermione quickly.

"I never told anyone..." she said slowly. "Only one man..."

"I was just curious," said Hermione. "Because--well--I am too..."

Ravenclaw smiled at her. "Curiosity is a virtue, but it can sometimes be a curse."

"Tell me about it," said Hermione, smiling nervously.

"Have I been exposed in the future?" she asked. "How did you know?"

"I...uh...I saw it in a dream," said Hermione, going slightly pink. "While I was in here...I mean--usually I think that stuff is absolute drivel, but I feel very...connected to this place...so..."

"Well," said Ravenclaw gently. "Perhaps you are. I have stored much of my memory, thought, and feeling in this place. Magic is a very curious force. There is much even the most learned do not yet understand of its mysteries."

Hermione nodded. "And the chalice...?" she asked softly, holding it aloft in her hands. It glittered dully in the soft light.

"You have done what is necessary. Destroy it...You have my blessing."

"Thank you," said Hermione. "I appreciate your help, but I really must hurry...my friends are waiting for me."

"Then good luck, Hermione Granger," said Ravenclaw. "Go. The way is open for you." She pointed to the door.

With another final backwards glance, Hermione closed her eyes and leapt through the wall.

000

Draco slammed his fist against the wall for a third time. Suddenly there was a dull, scraping sound next to him. A hole opened up in the sloping wall next to him. It quickly formed into a long stone staircase, sloping up into the wall above him and disappearing. Then he saw it--sunlight! A gorgeous, golden shaft of it cascading down the newly formed tunnel and pooling at Draco's feet. Finally! Freedom from this accursed hellhole! He looked around. Dammit! Now he just had to find--

Someone flew through the wall in front of him, knocking him to the ground. They tumbled a few feet across the dirt floor of the cave, a tangle of limbs and hysterical shouts. Draco struggled free and leapt to his feet.

"GRANGER!" he yelled. "Bloody hell, woman!"

Hermione laughed at him, rolling over so she could climb back onto her feet. Draco gave her a hand.

"I found a way out," he said importantly.

"How very clever of you," she said in a saccharine voice. "Look what I found." She held up the chalice. Draco smiled.

The Horcrux. The key to the Dark Lord's downfall. That bastard was going to pay for his mother's death.

Hermione walked towards the newly formed stairs. "Let's get out of here, shall we?"

Draco nodded and followed her as she headed into the promise of sunlight.

000

**AN: **Whew! Sorry it took so long to update. I kept messing around with this chapter. It was never quite the way I wanted it. I think I got it pretty close to how I wanted it, so all's well. Hope you all liked it!

Ok, yes, you were all right. I don't know where I got the idea for the billions'o'boggarts--wait actually I do--I was at work and I was really bored for 5 hours so I stared off into space and wrote fanfiction in my head. The tons of boggarts don't take the form of whatever frightens you the most, they suck you up and launch you into this uber-involved realistic nightmare in which all your worst fears are realized in a realistic way and it is of course--terrifying! (spooky music plays)  
**  
Ursh:** Yeah, I totally overdue it with the British slang...but what can I say? I'm an American fanfic author, lol. And the molar thing...sorry. I thought the alliteration sounded funny together. Also, I have no idea where Florence is in Italy. I'm a very lazy person. But thank you for the info.

**foxeran: **(and everybody else who mentioned this) Yes, I'm sorry. I had to separate the trio for a few chapters. It's DMHG! What am I supposed to do? Hehehe...  
**  
Tristana:** OMG, my microsoft word expired and I had to type in WORDPAD! Oh, the evils of wordpad...mostly the problem is it has NO spellcheck. I need spellcheck! (calms down) So sorry about any errors.

**renyun**: I totally fixed that error when I saw your review. Damn wordpad! Thanks though...

Another note: Ravenclaw is dead. She has NO Horcruxes. The ghost was just a compilation of leftover thought and memory that she left to animate the cave.


	13. Homebound

It was just a cup. She stared at it as she ascended the stony steps out of the cave. Shiny, symmetrical—sort of pleasant in a purely aesthetic sense. Still, Hermione carried it with her shirt sleeve, afraid to have her skin in contact with the metal for an extended period of time. After all, however innocuous it may seem, it _did_ contain within it the soul of the most evil wizard of all time.

She leaned her head back and closed her eyes, smiling as the walls of the tunnel receded and sunlight bathed her face for the first time in days. Ah…gentle breeze, rustling leaves, everything that made her love being outdoors. Usually in the summer, she spent most of her day outside, lying in the grass and reading. The mild warmth of the soil rising up to greet her in gentle waves and the smell of the freshly cut grass wafting about her senses—that, ladies and gentlemen—was summer for Hermione Granger, and she missed it fiercely.

_THUMP._

Hermione squeaked in surprise as she was all but tackled by two tall figures and wrapped in and bear-like hug.

"You're alright!"

"You are alright, aren't you? You look alright."

"Did you get it?"

"Did Malfoy do anything?"

"Should we kill him?"

"The offer to torture him for no reason hasn't expired yet, has it?"

"What are you talking about? There are plenty of reasons to torture him."

"No," she managed to gasp as the air finally went whooshing back into her lungs. Ah, the hazards of having two rather large, male, teenage Quidditch players for best mates. "No torture. Here."

She held the cup aloft and both Harry and Ron stopped gibbering and stared at it.

"Hermione, you're amazing," said Harry sincerely. She blushed, and handed the Horcrux to Harry. He accepted it slowly, and turning it gingerly in his hands examining the dull sheen of its surface.

"Wow," breathed Ron, staring at it with wide eyes. "Shit. I can't believe that's…what that actually is. Shit." Harry nodded in agreement.

"Four down," said Harry softly.

_Three to go_…finished Hermione. Though the real problem that was about to present itself, she realized, was how they would actually go about destroying it. She had been wondering about Dumbledore's withered hand ever since Harry had first mentioned the Horcruxes…and the ring…

"We can walk back towards town and Apparate home," said Harry decisively, without breaking his gaze on the chalice. "We'll decide exactly where _home_ is on the way." They nodded in agreement.

Malfoy, meanwhile, had climbed out of the cave directly behind her and begun dusting himself off. He stood a little behind them, mostly ignoring what they were doing. They were all rather smudged with dirt, and it was particularly noticeable on Malfoy's complexion—the amazing albino boy. He looked irritated and began performing cleaning charms on himself, waving his wand rather vindictively at the accumulated filth, as if it had insulted him on a very personal level.

"Oy, Malfoy!" called Ron, turning his gaze from the Horcrux. "If you're done preening like a little girl, we should probably get going."

"Fuck you Weasley," replied Malfoy. "My family likes to practice a little thing called _hygiene_, I don't suppose yours has even heard of it…"

Ron got a little red, and opened his mouth to say something.

"Oh, stop," said Hermione, exasperatedly. Just what they needed—another sniping bicker-fest. Besides, Ron would probably lose.

Oh, dear. Did she really just think that?

They began walking, hoping to at least reach a road before sundown. If they could get their bearings, they would have less of a chance of splinching. Going to a strange place was one thing, but going back home via Apparation was actually quite simple—if one takes the proper precautions of course.

"Not the Dursley's," said Ron. "No offense, mate, but those people are repulsive." Hermione stepped down over a rotted tree stump and steadied herself as both feet hit the firmly packed dirt of the robe. They were discussing possible places to stay.

"None taken."

"Well…" said Hermione, thinking carefully. "Pretty much our only possibilities are our homes, or Hogwarts, I suppose…"

"That's still a problem," said Harry, frowning. "Anywhere we go, we're putting our families in danger." Malfoy looked at him, but didn't speak.

"Going to Hogwarts would make us a lot more conspicuous," pointed out Hermione. "Rita Skeeter is practically living in Hogsmeade now. It's a media circus."

"So where the hell are we supposed to go?" demanded Ron. "Should we just keep moving?"

"That's almost as dangerous," said Harry, shaking his head. He sighed. "So where should we stay? An inn?"

"I have an idea…" said Hermione quietly.

"What is it?" asked Harry.

"Well—I wouldn't mention it if we had any other options…" Her expression was apologetic.

"Why not?" he said quizzically.

"Because I don't think you're going to like it."

000

A little over half an hour later, they were standing in the middle of the sidewalk, staring at a large empty space between two Muggle houses. Great. An empty space. Charming.

"How do we get in?" asked Potter. He did not look too excited at the prospect of 'getting in' to wherever the hell they were going.

Granger looked at the space uncertainly. "We all know where it is…" she said slowly. She looked at Draco. "Except for him."

"The Secret Keeper is gone," said Potter softly. "So...what does that mean? Is the charm broken?" They were looking at Granger. They were always asking her something. Merlin, was the girl supposed to know everything?

"I'm not sure," she said. "But I do know that Sirius transferred ownership to you, Harry." She looked a little more confident. "There are a lot of security measures on the house, outside of the Fidelus. Just…call for it."

"Uh…right," said Harry. He looked at the empty space, gesturing uncertainly with one hand. "I'm pretty sure that Number 12 Grimmauld Place is right here," he said in a loud voice. Nothing happened. Instead of looking back at Granger, he began to look irritated. "Hey," he said a little louder. "This is my house. I want to see a house right _here_. NOW!"

Fuck that. Granger did know everything. There was a building appearing between the two houses, inflating quickly into existence and pushing the houses aside.

Number 12 Grimmauld Place. At least that's what the plaque on the side of the large, run-down house. From the outside, it looked as though it had been abandoned for several decades. It was coated in peeling black paint. It looked like a traditional wizarding home, however dilapidated it was. Draco would rather stay in there that any of the other places that had been offered. Actually—he would rather stay at his own house, but he had no idea what had become of it.

"Eh, crap," said Weasley, staring dejectedly at the house. Potter didn't look very pleased either.

_What was Weasley complaining about? _thought Draco. _This ramshackle piece of junk was probably a palace compared to the shoe box the Weasley family most likely lived in._ Hey, why hadn't he said that aloud? Maybe he was going soft…

They moved forward along the front walkway, towards the battered black door. There was a curled silver serpent serving as a knocker. Draco smiled. Now _that_ looked welcoming.

Hermione reached forward and grasped the doorknob. She made a motion to turn it, but there was a sudden zapping sound and she withdrew her hand with a sharp intake of breath.

"Ow!" she yelped. She muttered angrily under her breath about prejudiced security systems. "Harry, would _you_?"

Potter grabbed the handle and pushed the door open with a creak. It opened to reveal an expanse of shadowy, sinister looking hallway. They walked inside. A thick layer of dust seemed to have taken up residence on every available surface.

"Ugh, it's become even more repulsive, if that's possible," said Potter in disgust.

"I don't know," said Draco shrugging. "I kind of like it. It just needs cleaned up a bit."

He was greeted with three incredulous stares and an oppressively lengthy silence.

"You're a psycho," said Weasley finally. Draco walked away, rolling his eyes. "Did anyone else notice he's a psycho?"

"Well…" said Granger evenly. "I guess we can make ourselves…_comfortable_…" Potter snorted.

"Yeah, right."

Draco wandered around in the hall, noticing a showcase of portraits covered in thick, velvety curtains. He peeked under one, only to be greeted with the vision of a very wrinkly, quite mad looking old woman wearing a rather ugly bonnet. She appeared to be dozing, but her eyes snapped open when the curtains parted.

"Who are you?" she demanded in a shrill voice.

"Draco Malfoy," he responded calmly.

"Malfoy?" The woman narrowed her eyes thoughtfully. "My sister had a daughter that married into that bloodline, excellent family, quite respectable."

"That's me," said Draco, puffing himself up importantly. _Finally_, _some recognition_. "I am the only son of Narcissa Black and Lucius Malfoy."

" 'Cissy Black! My niece! Respectable girl! Beautiful, and what a handsome son she bore. Tell me child, where is your mother? Is she here?"

Draco swallowed. "She's…"

He heard footsteps behind him. The portrait seemed to forget him, its eyes bulging wildly as it launched into a tyrannical series of crazed shrieks.

"MUDBLOOD! SHAMING THE HOUSE OF MY FATHERS! GET OUT! GET OUT! GET—" Hermoine pushed past Draco and, with some exertion, managed to pull the curtains shut. She turned and leaned against the wall, panting.

"What are you doing?" she hissed in a low, urgent voice. "Do _not_ disturb the angry portraits of Sirius's crazy relatives!"

"Fine," said Draco, not really caring either way. She held a finger to her lips and they both walked quietly out of the hall, into the living room. "You know Granger," he said thoughtfully. "I think that might have been my great-aunt."

She stared at him. "Brilliant," she said flatly. "Just bloody brilliant."

000

They were discussing the next step. Hermione had the diary open on her lap. Mafloy, naturally, was next to her. She could feel the hot prickle of his eyes, staring at her, boring into the side of her head—but she refused to look at him. That made her feel somewhat guilty. Problems needed to be met head on, but right now, she was too preoccupied. At least that's what she kept telling herself.

She was skimming down Regulus's list of Horcruxes. Though he attested that there was an incredible amount of secrecy within the ranks of Voldemort's lieutenants, Regulus managed to find out a fair bit of information—most of it he was probably _not_ meant to know.

"He knew there were more than five, though he only saw three with his own eyes…" said Hermione, without taking her eyes off the page. "A chalice, a ring, and a locket…"

"So he didn't know about the diary?" said Harry, furrowing his brow.

"There are seven total, right?" said Ron.

"Not counting the—er—bit that's _in_ him, so that means that there are only six," said Harry wisely.

"Seven," said Malfoy. "Merlin and Agrippa. _Seven_ Horcruxes." He shook his head.

It was a great deal to contemplate. A part of Hermione wished she could read more about them, but a part of her was also repulsed at the thought of learning about something so terrible. The _division_ of a human _soul_? When you actually thought about it, it was a monstrous concept…

"I think the real question is—" said Harry. "Should we destroy this one first? Or should we go after the rest of them?"

"I vote we destroy that thing. Right now," pitched Ron. "In fact, I think yesterday was a little too late."

"We don't know the consequences of that," said Hermione warily. "Don't you remember Dumbledore's hand? Here—wait—" She flipped pages until she found what she was looking for. It was one of the last entries.

"_I plan to take the locket of Salazar Slytherin and destroy it the moment I lay down this diary. However, destroying a Horcrux is no simple matter. It takes a tremendous amount of power…Leading theory states that only the creator of a Horcrux, meaning the one in which the other piece of the soul resides, will be able to destroy the Horcrux without suffering devastating damage…It would take an extremely powerful wizard to destroy one without dying himself…which is why by the time you read this, I will probably be dead. Either way, it will be by the hand of the Dark Lord."_

Hermione lowered the diary and sighed. It still didn't tell her everything. Would Voldemort be able to sense it the moment they actually destroyed the thing? Did it matter? Would one of them have to give up their lives to destroy it? And the bigger problem was that she _knew_ Harry would volunteer unhesitatingly to sacrifice himself, and she couldn't let him. Not yet. There had to be another way…

"OK…" said Ron.

"So your best bet is to get the fucking things together before the Dark Lord notices and comes and slaughters us like cattle," drawled Malfoy, crossing his arms and hunching down into his chair. "And before Golden Boy there can throw himself into the dragon's mouth and die for the good of bloody humanity, because that's probably what it'll take."

Hermione tried not to look stunned. No. They were not thinking along the same lines. That would be insane. They weren't, OK! Merlin…

"A—anyway," she said finally. She mentally ran through the list of Horcruxes.

Riddle's diary—destroyed…by Harry... The ring on Dumbledore's finger last year, apparently destroyed, though the consequences were apparent on Dumbledore's hand. (If anyone could destroy a Horcrux and live to tell the tale—it was him.) The locket—theoretically destroyed by Regulus and replaced with a fake one. It was strange to think...he might have been writing these words in this very room…

The chalice was glittering dully on the table next to Harry's armchair. There was also a 'mystery Horcrux' which no one seemed to know the identity of. By Hermione's calculations, it should be something that belonged to Godric Gryffindor. However, Hermione had no idea if Voldemort had actually managed to get his hands on something that belonged to Gryffindor and apparently, neither did Regulus.

According to Harry—and Dumbledore—there was a cup that belonged to Helga Hufflepuff. Regulus had no idea (what _or_) where it was. It had not been given to him to hide—probably a wise strategic move on Voldemort's part—showing all your proverbial cards to one man was not exactly a prudent strategy. All that Regulus knew was that another Horcrux had been given to 'the Dark Lord's favorite, his most loyal servant," which could be a lot of people, she supposed. Two Horcruxes had been given to lieutenants for safe keeping, but the aforementioned was 'something from the Dark Lord's youth' so she naturally ruled it out as the diary.

That of course, left Voldemort himself, assuming Harry and Dumbledore's theory about "seven" was correct. Since he might prove a _teensy_ bit more difficult to destroy than a series of inanimate objects, Hermione thought they should probably save him for last.

So they actually weren't doing too bad.

"According to what we know so far, there are three that are already destroyed, two that we haven't found yet, one that's sitting on that table, and one that's walking around murdering innocent people."

"How can we find the other two?" asked Harry, his expression forming into his 'determined' face.

"I don't know yet." Hermione shrugged helplessly. "Neither does Regulus. I'm afraid if we want to go forward, we have to gather our own information."

"How are we supposed to get information on Death Eaters?" demanded Ron, throwing up his arms in frustration. They all looked at Malfoy.

"Hey, don't look at me!" he said angrily. "They don't like me. They're trying to kill me, remember? Besides, I gave you that ruddy diary, what else do you want?"

"We're asking for your advice," said Hermione. There it was. A useful ally. "Who could we go to?"

Malfoy looked as though he was considering being smug about this for a moment, but he quickly sobered up and looked thoughtful. "You're not going to find a reliable mole in the Dark Lord's ranks, not right now anyway. I'm sure I've lost my allies within the organization, but…"

He was so calculating, thought Hermione. He knew the consequence of every relationship, every moment.

"There are a few people on the outside who I might be able to…_persuade_ a little bit of information from," he finished.

"Where?" asked Harry in a very to-the-point tone. "How quickly?"

"Knockturn Alley, I suppose," replied Malfoy evenly. "And I don't see why I couldn't go right now."

"Right—" said Harry. "We'll all—"

"I'll go alone, Potter," snapped Malfoy. "I don't need you to be my fucking babysitter."

"How do we know you'll come back?" asked Ron accusingly. Should they care if he came back? They didn't really need him to read the diary anymore…

"Well I guess you _don't_, do you, Weasley?" he said. Harry frowned. He clearly felt it was wrong to let him go alone.

"Here—" said Harry. He popped a trunk out of his pocket and restored it to his normal size. "Take this." He pulled a long stream of silvery fabric out of his trunk and handed it to Malfoy. "Try not to get killed before you can bring us back information, alright?"

Wow, thought Hermione. Could it be that actually passed for…civility?

Harry ignored the fact that Ron's eyes were popping out of his head. Malfoy stood and walked towards the door. He would be back. Hermione, despite _everything_ she had ever known, was inclined to believe him.

000

An invisibility cloak. It figured. Snape had mentioned him having one before, but to be honest, Snape tended to be a little nuts.

Draco smiled inwardly as he glided along the London streets, invisible. Weasley was right. He could leave if he wanted to. But he already knew he wasn't going to—he just wasn't sure why. They didn't really need him. Potter-the-bloody-Golden-Boy would probably kill the Dark Lord, one way or another.

Could it be…he actually _wanted_ to help?

…He liked the way Granger had looked at him just then, as he left. Like he wasn't pitiful or helpless or arrogant or scum—like he was person. And Merlin help him, he got more satisfaction from that one glance than from anything in a long while.

He slipped soundlessly through the dismal atmosphere of the Leaky Cauldron. He had considered using the Floo Network, but he was fairly sure it was being monitored by both sides. He sighed, turning left into an alleyway. The route was familiar.

As soon had thought about it, Draco realized there was one reliable source of information he could exploit no matter what—Borgin. Borgin had his ear to the proverbial ground. He knew what was happening in the world of the Dark Arts. It was his trade to do so, of course. Draco believed his value was underappreciated. He knew a great deal more than most 'outsiders' did, but he was dismissed and ignored as being little or no threat. Draco couldn't blame people for thinking that way. The man was such a simpering little wimp. All Draco had to do was wave the Dark Mark in his face and the man practically pissed his robes. He smiled to himself again. This was going to be easy.

000

The bell on the door tinkled softly in high, dissonant tones. Draco stepped gracefully through the eerie atmosphere of the shop, watching as Borgin wrote in his logbook, his large feathery quill wobbling back and forth in the dusty air. He set the quill down on the counter and turned around, rooting through suspicious looking bottles. Draco approached the opposite side of the counter. He leveled his wand at the back of Borgin's head and pulled of the cloak with a whooshing sound.

"Mr. Borgin," he said in a voice of deadly calm. Borgin jumped about a foot in the air and whirled around, flattening himself up against the wall.

"Y—young Master Malfoy," he stammered. "What brings you here?" His fingers edged towards the shelf.

"If you move your hand any closer to the wand you keep stuck under that shelf, Mister Borgin," said Draco pleasantly. "I will blow it off. Do you understand me?"

Borgin paled slightly and swallowed, nodding. He surveyed Draco for a moment, then seemed to come to a conclusion.

"Master Malfoy," said Borgin, puffing himself up with a little bit more confidence. "It is known in the circles I travel in—" Draco snorted inwardly. As if he actually traveled in those circles, more like licked their boots… "that you have fallen out of the favor of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. So…" He allowed himself a small smug grin. "You will forgive me if I am disinclined to feel threatened by a—"

"If you are going to call me a child, Mr. Borgin," said Draco, keeping his light, pleasant tones, "you would be very much mistaken. You should recall that I am legally an adult now, and all the threats I have made over the past year still stand." Borgin shifted uncomfortably, his grin fading.

"Furthermore, if you are truly as well versed in current information as you claim, you would realize that I am in quite an uncomfortable position. I am a man, Mr. Borgin. A very desperate man at that. You see, I have no allegiance left to anyone. Which means—" He raised the tip of his wand slightly.

"If I were to _kill_ you right now, it is simply because I feel like it, and I will be in no lesser or greater trouble, for no one gives a newt's eye for the state of your health and well-being, Mr. Borgin, and you very well know that." Borgin retreated backwards, leaning into the solid wall of shelves behind him, all but cowering.

"What do you want?" he asked, his voice almost a whimper.

"Information," said Draco. "Something you claim to have an abundance of, it seems."

Borgin crossed his eyes in an effort to get a more holistic view of the wand tip thrust into his face. He swallowed. "Yes, sir," he said in a weak voice.

"Good." Draco smiled. "What do you know about Horcruxes, Borgin?"

000

Malfoy returned a few hours later, slamming the door behind him. He looked furious. He stormed into the living room and threw the invisibility cloak onto the couch next to Harry.

"No luck?" said Harry, looking disappointed. Malfoy let out a stream of expletives before responding coherently. "Erm…"

"I found out _plenty_," he said throwing himself down onto the couch. He folded his arms and scowled.

"Are you gonna share or should we just bloody guess, Malfoy?" said Ron, throwing him a look of enmity.

"Well…" Malfoy related slowly. "It depends. I talked to Borgin. He's heard a few things over the past few days..."

"Such as?" inquired Harry.

"The Dark Lord is holding a celebration in order to venerate the triumph of his most loyal servant," said Malfoy, through gritted teeth. Harry's eyebrows raised.

"Most loyal?" he pressed. Hermione's interest was peaked as well, but it wasn't necessarily the answer they were looking for. After all, Voldemort's favor had probably shifted across the decades, hadn't it?

"Snape," snarled Malfoy. "I'm pretty damn sure it's for Snape." Hermione considered carefully. She felt incredibly betrayed as she thought of her former teacher. It was something she could never quite reconcile in her own mind. Dumbledore had trusted him. He always had, though no one else understood why. He had trusted him—and Snape had betrayed him. He had betrayed him to his _death_. Did that mean Snape's loyalties had _always_ lain solely with Voldemort? Was he the 'most loyal, favorite servant' that Regulus had spoken of? If so, that would mean…

"There's more," said Malfoy, his hands clenching convulsively. "This part is mostly rumors, whispers, rather unfounded because it's kept so quiet…"

"What?"

"The rumor is that the loyal servant is returning something of value to the Dark Lord, something that he has been keeping for years, something that the Dark Lord now believes is in great danger."

Harry's eyes widened. "A Horcrux?"

"Most likely," said Malfoy. Hermione drummed her fingers along the surface of the currently blank diary. Whether the Horcrux was in Snape's possession or not, if it was going to be moved to 'the celebration,' it was the perfect opportunity to steal it.

"What kind of celebration are we talking about here?" asked Hermione. "Could we sneak in?"

Malfoy continued to look angry, his pale face contorted with rage. "The way I understand it, it's a kind of ball, a tradition amongst purebloods for centuries. Dancing, all that bullocks…for a special occasion."

A special occasion. The death of Albus Dumbledore. The thought of a celebration for such an event made Hermione feel sick to her stomach. She ignored it. Malfoy continued.

"I'm pretty sure we could sneak in," he said venomously. "I know the location fairly well. It's a house, with a huge formal ballroom in the basement. Perfect for such functions. In fact, it's housed Ministry formal events for centuries. And with the owners gone, it's even more convenient. So I don't think we're going to have trouble sneaking in, or navigating, even though security is nearly impenetrable."

Ron looked rather bewildered. "So…where is it?"

Draco's eyes flashed. He spat the next words with such venom that it sounded to Hermione as if he were uttering a dark curse.

"Malfoy Manor."

000

**AN:** Ah ha ha. Can you tell I love to torture Draco? It's because I love him! (hehe) He's so awesome.

**Rachel:** Yes, it's TOTALLY Buffy/Spike. The X/C was just the one kiss.

Thanks to everybody who reviewed! I love to hear feedback! It keeps me on the right track. For example, if the story is starting to get boring or drag—let me know and I'll try to spice it up a bit. Next Chapter: Hermione and Draco go dancing. Mmm…sexy, sexy dancing…

REVIEW!


	14. Fortunate Son

"Come out of there, Hermione."

"NO," she replied flatly, refusing to open the door.

"Oh, come on," said Ron exasperatedly. "It can't be that bad."

Oh, it was _that_ bad. She stalled for a few more minutes before throwing open the bedroom door and stomping out into the hallway, where she glared at her "friends" and they all stared back with stunned, glazed looks.

They were staring at her as if she were a piece of meat.

All three of them to be exact. She self-consciously folded her arms over her chest, but it did little good, as the black aberration she had dubbed the 'Skanky Dress' did not cover very much as it was. She was not a piece of meat. She was a person.

She was perfectly aware that she was pretty enough for most extents and purposes, not stunning or gorgeous, but not really ugly, especially now that her teeth weren't approximately the size of a small foreign country. She had learned that from the Yule Ball. She was not stupid. Anyone could look pretty like that, all dressed up in expensive robes and painstakingly applied make-up and glamour charms, and Hermione didn't care to waste her valuable time on such frivolous things. At least not more than it was required at special, rare occasions. She wasn't opposed to dressing up—it just made her feel so…shallow. Insincere. And if people were going to like her, they had damn well better like her for _her_, not for her charming smile or her immaculate make-up job.

She stood in the doorway of the bedroom she had just emerged from and frowned. She tried to shift her weight, but her leg peeked out of the slit in the Skanky Dress and she nervously shifted back, all the while pondering just how she had arrived at this unpleasant juncture.

As they had discussed their plans, they realized that they had a very small frame of time and the bulk of the resources available to them were probably present in the house. They raided the cabinets, boxes, and closets that the Order had sorted through while they were cleaning. It turned out that "cleaning" consisted mainly of shoving things in boxes and jamming them into a closet as quickly as possible. There weren't that many dresses in the house that were both appropriate for the occasion and would fit her. The only dress was this one, which Hermione had actually laughed at when she pulled it out of the box. It was long and made of a shimmering black material, with a high collar that split scandalously along the chest area and dipped low in the back in a pattern shaped like a large teardrop that exposed the entire open back. It was the kind of dress that her mother would have forbade her to leave the house in. Not that she would have wanted to leave the house in it anyway. Her mirth had quickly disappeared when Malfoy had suggested she either put it on or go naked, because there were no other suitable candidates.

"_You_ put it on," she told him, in a remarkably clever retort, while she eyed the dress warily.

"I already have a set," he replied. And then he smirked.

"Make Ron wear it," she said chidingly. Ron, however, had not seen the inherent humor in this remark and had immediately choked on whatever he was drinking. Hermione had hastily apologized, and told him that she was just kidding, and that they didn't have any Polyjuice Potion available anyway. (Which was one of the main reasons Hermione was searching for a dress in the first place.) Still, Ron had continued to choke for a good five minutes, until Harry had intervened by heartily clapping him on the back. Malfoy smirked some more, and Hermione had stormed up the stairs clutching the dress in a place where she imagined the neck would be, had she been throttling the dress for simply existing and being so slutty. She had a stare down contest with the Skanky Dress for a good ten minutes, which the dress won—possibly because it had no eyes in the first place—and only then did she sigh heavily and put the dress on. But not before swearing revenge on Malfoy.

Hermione raised an eyebrow.

"Well?" she said irritatedly, tapping her foot in impatience. "Shall we go over the plan again, or shall we stand around all day and stare at each other?"

"Er—right," said Harry, finally closing his formerly slack jawed mouth. Her friends had the occasional tendency to treat her as if she were "one of the guys," Now they were doing that thing where just stared at her as though they had never seen her before. She _hated_ that thing. Not that she wanted to be seen as a completely androgynous person, but she would appreciate it if, once and awhile, they realized that she was a _girl_ for Merlin's sakes.

Stupid slutty dress robe!

And you know, that's the very reason she had agreed to go out with Victor Krum. Beacuse a) he had asked her and b) he had done it while she was in the library of all places. He thought she was _interesting_. And that was enough for her. She was perfectly willing to overlook the fact that he was a Quidditch player, even though that was not something she looked for in a man. Krum was nice enough, and he liked very much to hold open doors for her, which she found rather unnecessary. She did not need a man to hold open doors for her, or pull out chairs for her, or anything of the like.

What she wanted was someone witty and intelligent and interesting with whom she could have interesting conversations, someone who respected her utterly and completely, and _that_ was why he loved her so much. Hermione did try to carry on interesting conversations with Krum, but they mostly trailed off into him saying, "Ya" over and over again. Then, he would usually gently touch her face and say something very creative such as, "Your verry pretty, Herm-o-niny," and she would smile and thank him, and they're very short lived uninteresting conversation was over.

And after, when she had told him very nicely, but firmly, (and in person, because it seemed like the honorable thing to do) that they should probably see other people, he had looked disappointed, but agreed. Hermione knew that he probably had at least 20 much prettier girls waiting in his immediate line of sight, and she had no one. Not really anyway. And apparently her idea to "give Ron a little while longer to come round" was a bust.

She had always imagined that she would grow up and become a very successful something or other, with her own desk and very large office, and then someday in her very challenging yet rewarding line of work she would cross paths with someone, someone _amazing_, and that would be that. They would get married, and in twenty years or so, when she was a famous and well established professional something or other, she would have one or two brilliant children. But her very illustrious career was a long way off, and there was a chance she would never live past graduation anyway.

She looked at Ron, who also was forced to close his mouth when she opened hers. Why did he have to be so thickheaded and immature?

Anyway…Malfoy had explained in detail the security measures at Malfoy Manor. Hermione's assessment of the excessive magical layers of security built into the house led her to believe that the entire Malfoy family had obviously suffered from paranoid schizophrenia for several generations. However, she opted not to mention it.

Their biggest asset was the fact that the house had automatically reverted to Draco's possession when his father went to jail and his mother had died. Malfoy had mentioned this with an absolutely stony, impassive expression, which caused Hermione concern over what he was actually feeling, but it was really none of her business, was it? As long as he was holding it together…well—they had a mission to accomplish.

They were sitting at the table in the downstairs kitchen. Ron raided the cabinets for Butterbeers, eventually dumping an armload of dusty bottles onto the table. Hermione cracked one open and gulped it down. This was not going to be a pleasant evening.

000

"OK," sighed Draco. "Granger and I will go in the front, pretending to be a couple—I'm going to _ignore_ that Weasley, you prat, unless _you_ would rather wear the dress—anyway, as I was saying, we'll go in and you two will go behind us under that cloak. I'm pretty sure I know where the thing would be kept, there's a high security chamber on the third floor…"

He stood at the head of the table, trying to give them a vague idea of how to navigate within the house. The plan was simple—sneak into the party, sneak upstairs, retrieve the Horcrux, and last but not least, run like hell. It was a damn good plan, in Draco's opinion. He had thought of it himself.

Of course, the plan hinged on no one recognizing them when they went in. The ball was a masquerade. Death Eaters were obsessed with secrecy. Not that it did much good. All their names were plastered over the bloody Daily Prophet anyway. Plus—if everything went to plan—they wouldn't have to spend more than a few minutes at the stupid bloody party at all. A few glamour charms should do the trick—enough to change hair or eye color. Anything stronger than that would probably resonate with the security spells, and that was definitely not a good thing.

"Alright, do we all understand?" asked Draco finally. "Weasley, do you need me to repeat it for you? I don't want your tiny brain to get overwhelmed—"

"Would you _shut up_, Malfoy?" said Weasley, who was already looking upset since the supply of butterbeer had dried up.

Potter stood up, deciding not to interfere in the tiff. Perhaps he thought Weasley could take care of himself. (Draco thought he was wrong there.)

"Well…" he said. "I guess we're off." Draco could give Potter at least a grudging respect. He had, he would admit, always been a bit jealous of Potter. He had fame, and glory, and attention, and for what? He never seemed to deserve it. But now he had something Draco had never noticed in preceding years. He had _power_. Draco had no idea where it had come from, but it eerily apparent in those penetrating, pond-scum green eyes of his. Power was worthy of respect. Weasely, meanwhile, was plucky and loyal and probably valuable to Potter, but he was just…an idiot. At least in Draco's opinion.

Granger, who was staring moodily at her empty butterbeer bottle and obsessively adjusting her dress, nodded and stood up as well. Draco didn't see what the problem with the dress was. He thought it was extremely flattering. He rather enjoyed looking at Granger in it. He had known she would look _good_ in it. In fact, he had taken great pains to hide all the other suitable, and much less exciting, dresses in the house while they were looking for that exact purpose. And he definitely didn't regret it now!

It had taken quite a bit of willpower for him not to stare at her like an idiot (Weasley) the entire time she was sitting there wearing it. What he found amusing was the fact that Granger seemed to have _absolutely_ no idea how gorgeous she was. And her two slack jawed mates seemed too dense to tell her. Well—it was really none of his business anyway. Since when was it his responsibility to boost her ruddy self-esteem?

They Apparated close to the house. The house looked the way he always remembered it—majestic and proud, standing tall and elegant in the surrounding darkness, hundreds of floating candles glimmering in the window. Draco felt something twist harshly inside of him as they approached. Pain? Rage? Guilt? He didn't know. What he wanted to do was storm inside, and scream at all those bastards to get OUT of HIS house. That, unfortunately, would probably result in his imminent death, but it seemed worth it. Almost.

000

Hermione's feet hurt. That was really saying something, considering she had only walked about 100 feet since Apparating. But her shoes were extremely, extremely uncomfortable. Another archaic remnant of the Black family wardrobe, they were strappy and pointy and tall, and seemed more like they should be used as weapons than shoes. But it was either those or a pair of monstrosities she suspected were Sirius's old motorcycle boots. Actually, neither option was particularly appealing.

She couldn't see Harry and Ron, but she could hear the shuffling of their feet and the whisper of the invisibility cloak dragging along the ground behind them. Malfoy was walking next to her. His gaze was fixed on the house before them—_his_ house—and he seemed to be deep in thought. His hand was tightening on hers. She wasn't exactly sure how they had come to be holding hands, but it seemed apt considering they were going to pose as a "couple," so neither had complained. Now, however, his hand was unconsciously tightening rather painfully on hers.

"Malfoy, you're crushing my hand…" she said.

"Oh," he said absently, releasing her. "Sorry."

Hermione gaped at him. What? No snide remarks? No sneer? He just kept staring straight ahead at the house, frowning. Maybe it was the mask. There was a portion of his face she couldn't see. That was another thing. What was with the masks, anyway? Hermione had actually burst out laughing when Malfoy said the word, "Masquerade." He had to be kidding. It was so…silly! It was idiotic. And the mask was itching her nose.

There was also a part of her that though Masquerades were interesting—mysterious, enthralling, and maybe even sexy. She was a little disappointed when Malfoy put on the mask. It didn't make him look that dashing. He looked sort of silly. Like the Phantom of the Opera or the Lone Ranger, or the books she used to read when she was little. Hermione had a sudden vision of Malfoy on the top of a rearing stallion, waving his black cowboy hat in the air and screaming "Hi-Ho Silver!" At that, she had to try very, very hard to stifle a giggle.

The house loomed in front of them, shimmering in the dark night. The house was actually rather pretty, she had to admit. Large, with a kind of gothic, baroque style architecture that was attractive in its own way. It also looked high, and pale, and cold—like Draco himself, she thought abstractly. They reached the stairs and slowed down considerably. Hermione could hear the length between each click of her uncomfortable shoes on the marble stairs. The doorway stood impassively at the top of the stairs, two thick, polished wooden slabs thrown wide open to reveal large, antiquated foyer. It looked empty. Noise and music seemed to waft up faintly from below them.

"Shouldn't there be a guard or a security checkpoint or something?" she asked quietly, examining the high, ornate arch of the open doors.

"This is it," replied Malfoy. "If we can pass through the doors, we're on the list and we won't be transported elsewhere."

"Don't you mean 'we won't be tossed back out?'" she asked, a little nervously.

"No," he said, almost cheerfully. "Anyone who isn't on the guest list and is trying to get into the house gets transported immediately into the dungeons."

"Your house has dungeons?" she said incredulously. He gave her a look as if to say, '_Doesn't yours?_'

OK, it could be said that everyone's family had a little weirdness in them. Some had more than others. Hermione, for example, had an aunt who had been picked up by the police whilst singing and dancing on a street corner, completely naked and extremely drunk. Hermione's father had related this story to her, extremely red faced, and told Hermione that she should never, _ever_ go into a bar on New Years. Still, her family did not have a dungeon in their basement, and she suspected, neither did Ron's.

"Don't worry Granger," he said casually. "I don't need an invite because it's my ruddy house."

"What about us?" she demanded. "I'm _not_ going to be tossed into a dungeon, thank you very much."

He smirked. "You won't be," he assured her. "Trust me." He offered her his hand.

_Trust him._ It was more of a question than a statement as it resonated in her head. Trust him. That was what this was all about, wasn't it? She accepted his hand.

"Draco Lucius Malfoy, Lord of the Estate," he told the door clearly. "And escort. And two guests under an invisibility cloak. Do _not_ announce us at the party as we enter."

Hermione shut her eyes for a moment as she passed through the door. When she opened them, she found herself, much to her delight, standing in the foyer and not the dungeon.

"You did it!" she gasped. He gave her an odd look as they started walking forward, down the corridor.

"Of course I did it," he said, giving her a very superior smirk. "There's a very keen intellect under these stunningly good looks and charming personality."

"Yeah right," snickered a voice from behind them. "Ow!" Malfoy stopped walking abruptly and one or more invisible people crashed into his back.

"Oh, sorry," he said innocently.

"I'll bet," muttered a voice.

"If you step on my foot one more time I'm going to take this cloak off and smother you with it!" grumbled the other voice. Hermione shushed them impatiently. At this rate, they were going to get them all killed. She jumped slightly as a shuffling noise sounded in front of them. A tiny, pale brown creature with large round eyes and huge ears hopped out in front of them.

"Hello, Sir and Miss," it said, without looking up. "May Spuffy take your cloaks for y—Master Draco!" squeaked the elf in shock. He looked up and his huge golden eyes widened in surprise. "What is you doing back, young Master?"

A house elf. _The poor thing_, thought Hermione. It looked so small and frightened. Malfoy was such an ass for having these poor creatures enslaved…

"My business here is my own, Spuffy," said Malfoy sternly. "And I would like to keep it that way."

"Yes sir, young master," said the elf. Well, enslaved or not—an opportunity for information should not be passed up.

"What can you tell us about the people here, Spuffy?" asked Hermione gently. These creatures needed patience, not hostility. When would these people figure that out?

"Cruel sorts," said the elf, his eyes brimming with tears. "They say the Mistress is dead, poor Mistress…Spuffy listens to them, though he doesn't have to, because he has nothing else to do, everyone has left Spuffy all alone…" He started wailing noisily.

"Be silent, elf," said Malfoy sharply. The elf immediately shut up, his tears fading away to quiet, hiccupping sobs.

"Don't be mean to him," said Hermione scoldingly. She crouched down and stroked the elf gently on the head. "You're OK," she said kindly. "Just don't tell anyone were here, alright?"

"That order comes from _me_ as well," added Malfoy in a commanding voice.

"Yes, Master," said the elf, nodding. Hermione stood up, satisfied.

"And if you don't obey my order, elf," he added in a threatening tone. "I—" Hermione glared at him.

"…I shall be very…um…cross with you…" he finished, in a somewhat diminished tone. The elf nodded again and scampered away. They continued on until they reached the end of the hall.

"This is it," hissed Malfoy. The cloak flew away, settling half on the ground and half in Harry's clenched fist. The four of them stood in the hall, gazing around nervously while simultaneously trying to hide how nervous they were. Hermione could hear her heart pounding in her chest. Or maybe it was the strain of walking in those stupid shoes and being barely dressed. They were in front of a large, rather expensive looking staircase, extending in two directions. "We need to walk downstairs and across the room to the other staircase."

"Across the room full of Death Eaters," said Harry frowning. "Why can't we just go up these stairs again?"

"Because they're not connected, Scarhead," snapped Malfoy.

"If it were that easy, I wouldn't have to be in this stupid dress," added Hermione in an exasperated voice.

"I think the dress is _quite_ fetching," remarked Ron, grinning stupidly.

"Shut up, Weasley," retorted Malfoy immediately, looking surprisingly hostile. Hermione raised an eyebrow. What was _that_ about?

"Just go," said Harry impatiently. His hand was tightening convulsively on his wand. "Stay to the outside, so we can follow you under the cloak." Malfoy nodded, and they set off down the stairs.

His arm was linked around hers—around the elbow, sort of a stiflingly formal indication of togetherness—with her hand grasping his arm above the crook. She unconsciously squeezed his arm as they moved down the staircase. Somehow, it actually made her feel a little better that he was there. Not much! But…he wasn't exactly useless in a fight. Not that she needed anyone to protect her! It was just…comforting. Weirdly enough. It was quite dark as they went down the stairs, save the black candles bobbing eerily in the air next to them.

She took a deep breath as the stairs emptied out into a large room with a high ceiling, dully lit and full of people. Hermione straightened up. Good posture—don't show fear. Don't make prolonged eye contact, but don't avoid it. Look confident. Look like everyone else here—completely self assured in their own _craziness_ and superiority.

They walked slowly across the room. There were probably about 200 or more people in there, Hermione realized with a chill. How could he have so many people working for him, already? Like her and Draco, they were dressed head to toe in black, with masks covering their faces. Secrecy. Secrecy was very important to them. She wondered if she knew any of them, if they were parents of classmates…or _classmates_, she realized, looking at Malfoy. But did he recruit younger people? Not that Voldemort was the kind who would have scruples about putting children in the line of fire, but…it was impractical. He had picked Draco, though he was probably trying to humiliate Lucius, for a mission. He had entrusted him with troops. Hell, Malfoy had almost succeeded. If he had gone through with it, which he didn't. He was rather astonishingly capable. You know. Maybe.

They were close. So close. She could see the doorway tucked away in the corner of the room, beckoning them. Just a little bit farther, they were...

000

Almost there. Draco could _taste_ it. A few more steps and—bloody buggering hell! Stupid people, invading his goddamn house!

Another couple strode forward and settled on the wall in front of them, sipping their white wine and looking sour. Cursing inwardly, Draco steered past them without looking at them. He was rather surprised when she allowed him to pull her along. She didn't seem like that kind of girl, which he actually liked. But she wasn't stupid. This was him in his element, and she obviously knew it. They were almost past when…

_Thump_. _Crash_. Draco winced as he heard a glass shatter all over the floor.

"Hey!" said the voice of an angry man from a few inches behind him. _Oh, shit._ He turned around slowly, glaring at the empty space where two, clumsy, invisible _morons_ were standing.

The man was looking around suspiciously. His gazed flew to Draco and Hermione and his eyes narrowed. Attention. Not good. Not good at all.

"Excuse me," he snarled. "Watch where your going. How dare you—"

"You're excused," said Draco coolly. "You're lack of coordination is really none of my concern."

The man advanced towards him. "Why you insolent—"

_He_ was insolent? This man was insulting him in _his_ own house! If circumstances were different, this worthless man would find his arse in the dungeons come daybreak…

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," said Draco lazily, his hand drifting casually to his pocket.

"I would," replied the man, quite unabashed.

"Oh, really now," said Granger impatiently from beside him, though her voice was quite calm. "This is why we don't like to associate with the lower caste…such insolence towards their superiors…" The man stopped, his eyes narrowing again in suspicion.

"What's your surname?" he demanded mistrustfully.

Granger simply laughed at him, clear and cool. Draco grinned inwardly. _Clever girl_…

"Our surname?" he cut in smoothly. "Do you think we'd really reveal that to the likes of you?"

"The entire point of this is to ensure that our good name isn't tarnished by arrogant little bastards who think they deserve respect for coming to a _ball_," said Hermione, gazing at him disdainfully. The man stepped back slightly, looking confused and slightly worried.

"How much have you sacrificed in the Dark Lord's service?" asked Draco in an accusatory tone. "Or did you just hear about this event yesterday? A friend from work perhaps, offering you a chance at glory?"

"Completely ignoring the respect you are supposed to show for _superior_ officers," she said haughtily, turning her nose in the air. "Not the _best_ way to get in good standing in our operation, I might warn you."

That did it. The man backed away, taking his wife's arm. "Forgive my rudeness…" he said uneasily, staring at the two of them as if they might curse him into tiny bits at any moment.

"See to it that it doesn't happen again," said Draco harshly. "Next time you may find yourself in the dungeons."

"Of course…" said the man graciously, tipping his head towards them. "Sir…Milady…" Draco was still smiling inwardly as they both watched, with severe glares, as he scurried away, wife in tow. They walked the rest of the distance across the room unhindered, until they passed through the doors and huddled in the staircase. Granger started giggling as soon as they were out of sight.

Potter and Weasley tore off the cloak, their stunned, shadowed faces suddenly appearing in midair. "Bloody hell that was brilliant, Hermione!" said Potter, trying to laugh as softly as possible.

Hey! That was brilliant _Hermione_? Well—she had taken the lead a bit…sort of. But he picked it up right away. It was amazing! They worked so well together. They just sort of…flawlessly fell in line…what, with her ability to boss people around and his ability to bully people mercilessly…(Adults were infinitely more fun to manipulate than children, he was rapidly discovering.)

"Yeah, smooth footwork, by the way," said Draco scathingly. "Scarhead, Weasel, was it too much to ask for you to _walk_ across a room without crashing into anybody?"

"Oh, shut up, Malfoy, we're here now aren't we?" said Potter, rolling his eyes impatiently. "Where to?"

"Up the stairs, to the left." They made their way down yet another painfully familiar hallway. Draco hadn't really realized how much he missed home until this moment. Being on the run sucked.

They reached the end of the hall—a set of huge, thick doors—impenetrable, to anyone but… He ran his hand across the door, settling his open palm on a circular design in the middle.

"_Iussi progenitor sanguinus expositus camera occultus armarium_," he whispered. He smiled in satisfaction as the doors creaked open, revealing the insides of the vault. Well—it wasn't a vault so much as a room—but it was extremely secure, had no windows, and was perfect for hiding valuables. In the center of the room, floating in the air behind a thin case of glass (though looks can be deceiving in this room) was…a tiny golden cup.

Potter took a step towards it. Draco held out a hand to stop him.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," he said casually. "Unless you would like to be blown into tiny bits." _Not that that wouldn't be amusing…_ Draco muttered a spell, disarming the rather nasty hexes in the floor, and they slowly approached the cup. The Golden Trio looked at the cup as he examined the base of the case.

"Dammit…" he muttered. There was a large red jewel missing from the base, revealing the tiny keyhole. "It's locked…" He tapped the key hole with his finger.

"Well, _unlock_ it!" said Weasley. "You did it before."

He shook his head. "Whoever put it here took the keystone out, I can't get to it without it." Potter let a stream of expletives under his breath.

"Whoever put it there?" asked Granger slowly. "But that would mean…"

"Snape," hissed Potter, through gritted teeth.

"Are you kidding me?" said Weasley in disbelief. "What? Are we just going to nip back downstairs, find the greasy git within a sea of black clad, slimy gits, nick the key thingy, and sneak back up here to get the damn cup before we all get murdered?"

"You forgot the running like hell part," said Draco. Weasley threw his arms up in frustration.

"That's impossible," said Granger, shaking her head.

"Not entirely," said Potter heavily. He took off his glasses and rubbed his forehead slowly with his hand. "Just very, very dangerous."

"Well, Granger," said Draco, smiling darkly. "I hope you like dancing."

Judging from the horrified look on her face, it was very likely that she did not.

000

**AN:** Whew! That ran a little longer than I expected. The dancing (which some are excited about and some are mortified about) will be here next chapter, obviously. Sorry. I'll try not to make it _too_ annoying or cliched. That's sort of my goal with this story, lol. I'll try to update about every two weeks, or sooner. I'm sort of drowning in papers right now.

**Lorett:** Thank you for the invitation. I'm REALLY busy with college work right now (first semester freshmen, lol) but I appreciate the offer. If I have more time over the holidays, I'll try to join up.

Guys, being the dork that I am, I went over to _Contra Veritas_ and posted a pic under my author name, Silverstar24. Check it out if you'd like. It's full of partially shirtless goodness.

**PS:** If you haven't yet, **GO SEE** **SERENITY**. It's brilliant.

**PSS:** Did you like the house elf's name? Hahaha…I crack myself up…


	15. Under My Skin

"Is that him?" Malfoy asked in a low voice. The question bordered on rhetorical. Hermione looked at the figure in front of her. Male, alone, black hair—hmm…skin really not sallow enough. Probably not him. Snape's skin tone was rather reminiscent of an Inferi suffering from nasty bout of sea sickness.

"No," she answered. It was actually hard to tell, her head being upside down and all. She snapped back into an upright position, Malfoy's hand supporting her back. They were dancing, trying as inconspicuously as possible to identify the people in the crowd.

It wasn't a wild party, though it certainly wasn't too quiet. People were standing around, some were chattering, many of them were dancing, and most of them were sipping glasses of something that looked like white wine.

There was music, but it wasn't the type of music Hermione usually listened to—it was a strange haunting tune, with a high, eerie melody whining over top of a low, pulsating bass rhythm. Though it sounded stiff and classical, it was creepy and rather depressing. There was no band, or even the Muggle stereo speakers she was used to. In fact, the music seemed to be emanating from a glowing, basketball sized sphere that was floating in the corner of the room.

They circled each other, locking eyes. Their hands were intertwined and her hand was resting on his shoulder, while his arm wrapped around her waist, resting on the small of her back. She felt like an international spy or something. Going undercover and doing something incredibly dangerous and cool. It was terrifying, what they were doing, but she would admit—it was also sort of…exciting. Her heart was racing. Of course...that might not have been because of the danger.

Malfoy was silent.

"You're actually a rather…good dancer," she said. No point in being hostile. Much. He looked rather surprised.

"Uh, I've had lessons since I was young," he said quickly. "You're…not as graceless as I thought you'd be."

She rolled her eyes. "Was that supposed to be a compliment?"

"Maybe," he said, a small grin playing on his features. At least his mouth wasn't covered by the mask. Not that she had any use for it. His mouth. Mostly he just used it to insult her. Mostly.

They spun again in a quick series of circles, moving to check out another side of the ballroom. Hermione was concentrating on not getting her toes stepped on. The only dancing lessons she had ever received were from her father in her living room when her mother heard about the Yule Ball and insisted she learn to waltz.

"How about him?" asked Malfoy.

"I doubt it," she sighed. "Isn't there some kind of Leglimency you can use to find out?"

Malfoy let out a sharp laugh. "Against _Snape_? Are you kidding? Merlin, Granger, I thought you were supposed to be the smart one."

_Hmph_. "It was just a _suggestion_," she retorted. Oh, Merlin. "I have another suggestion for you," she said sweetly.

"And that would be…?"

"If you slide your _hand_ any farther down my backside it will fall into the realm of inappropriateness, and I will be forced to vanish your arms off," she said bluntly.

"That wasn't a suggestion," he pointed out, sliding his hand back up her spine in the most unabashed way possible, grinning as he did so. She shivered. Ooh, he was so _arrogant_.

"You're right," she said, irritated.

"Sorry," he said, sounding almost, but not quite sincere. "In that dress, you just look…"

Oh, what now? Was that a _compliment_? It could be, she supposed. But, she realized, her temper flaring, that based on past experience, it was far more likely…

"Slutty?" she hissed angrily, trying to keep her voice low. "_Slutty_? Do I look slutty to you? Just because I am dressed like a two-bit skank does not mean that I am one! I hate this dress, and I hate being here!"

"I'm not relishing being here either," he snapped. He twirled her, a little violently, and pulled her close, slamming their bodies together so he could hiss in her ear. "This is my _house_, Granger. Do you I think I like having to sneak into it? To see all these people invading it like it's their own?" She blushed and looked away, but they were so close, it was difficult. His breath was hot on her bare neck, sending shivers down her spine.

"And…" He looked away as well. "I was going to say…that you looked…pretty."

She had to concentrate on not gaping. _Pretty_? "Pretty?" she said in disbelief.

"Do you think that's him?" asked Malfoy evasively, looking across the room. _Ahh_! What was going on? This was such an inappropriate time for him to suddenly decide to act like a decent human being. They were in a room full of Death Eaters!

"No," said Hermione. "Do you actually think I'm pretty?"

He paused before speaking. "Yes…you're actually very pretty…" Hermione smiled inwardly. Maybe he wasn't so bad after all. "If I didn't know better, I'd think you were a Pureblood." Then again, maybe he was.

"You are such an idiot!" she said furiously.

"_I'm_ an idiot?" he said incredulously.

"You're never, _never_ going to get over your prejudices, are you?" she demanded.

"Oh—you—shut up!" he said angrily, their mission now quite forgotten. Fortunately, they still managed to keep their voices at an inconspicuous level. She stamped angrily on his toes. "Ow!" he grunted, white blond eyebrows furrowing.

"Don't you tell me to shut up!" she snapped. "You have no right—"

"This is _my_ house," he said fiercely. He look like he wanted to shout but knew he couldn't, so he pulled her closer and articulated every syllable. Merlin, he smelled good…dark and sweet and wintery…

"Oh, really?" she said. "Well if it's your house, what are all these people doing here? Did you _invite_ them, Malfoy?" Oh, that was mean. She shouldn't have said that. Usually she could keep her mouth shut, when it was reasonable. Sometimes, though, she did do very stupid things. Why? Why _Malfoy_? Even with Ron she could usually keep from saying anything _too_ mean. How did he get under her skin like that? He made her so _angry_…

"You all think you're better than me, don't you?" he said heatedly. "Always doing the _right_ thing, spreading truth and bloody justice and shiny happy goodness everywhere you go—do you really think things are that _simple_?"

"No!" she retorted furiously. "And you think _we're_ arrogant? You swaggered so much around Hogwarts I thought you had hip dysphasia when I first saw you in the halls!"

"Oh, is that so?" They were still dancing, only it was becoming increasingly impulsive and violent. They whirled, dipped, and slammed their way across the floor. Fortunately, no one seemed to notice. Hermione's grip on Malfoy's shoulder continued to tighten. She half wondered if he was going to drop her right onto the floor the next time he dipped her. The low pulse of the music continued to pound across the room.

"Yes," she replied. "Then I just realized it was just because you were the most conceited, arrogant, stuck up jerk ever!" They were squeezing each other's right hands so tightly she was beginning to feel a sharp, uncomfortable prickle in her currently starch white fingers. However, she ignored the pain and held fast. Damned if she was going to back down first!

"Well at least I'm not a know-it-all, bossy, loudmouthed stroppy bint who's obsessed with books—"

"What's wrong with books?" she demanded indignantly. What did people have against books? What did he have against books? Books were wonderful. And she _knew_ he wasn't an idiot, despite himself…

"Books are boring," he said, as if it were obvious. "Reading is for people who have nothing better to do."

"Books are not boring! And reading is not for people who have nothing better to do! You're such a hypocrite. I've seen you in the library! What the hell do you do in there if not reading?"

If he was blushing at all, it was rather hard to tell under the mask. He mumbled something, but didn't respond.

"Fine!" she said. "I don't care. I'm sick of this." Harry and Ron were waiting upstairs…

"Well, in case you didn't notice, Granger," he said scathingly. "We're not really doing this for our own personal amusement." She glared at him. She wasn't sure if it was even visible from under the mask, but it somehow seemed to shine through anyway.

"If I were a greasy, hygienically ignorant, socially inept, cold-hearted murderous bastard, with no people skills, do you know where I'd creep about at a party?" she asked exasperatedly.

"Where?" asked Malfoy.

"Over there," she tipped her head towards the crystal fountain on the far wall, which seemed to be dispensing the translucent, pale golden drink that everyone was sipping. There was a man huddled against the wall, clutching a drink in a sallow, pincer-like hand and looking extremely sour.

000

"That sounds very likely," said Draco in agreement, staring across the room at the fountain. Goblin wrought. Fifteenth century. Dispensing what was probably large quantities of elf made wine from his family's private stores.

Something occurred to him. "Granger," he said. "What the hell didn't you say that before?"

"Hmm?" she said vaguely. She grabbed his hand and pulled him towards the table covered in crystal wine glasses. They paused in front of it and she wrapped her arms around his neck and they continued to sway to the music, their bodies pressed rather tightly together.

"Did you—" he leaned in and whispered in her ear. "Did you _want_ to dance, Granger?" he asked quietly in disbelief, not sure whether to be indignant or amused.

He could almost see feel her blushing from beneath the mask. "I don't want anything from you Malfoy, just so we're clear on that," she said haughtily.

He felt his trademark smirk returning. Who could blame her? He was _extremely_ attractive, after all, in his own very remarkable opinion. Not that she wasn't. She wasn't a striking beauty by any means…but for some reason—he couldn't shake the feeling that she was one of the most gorgeous girls he had ever seen in his life. Dammit—_why_ did he admit that to her? God, she was infuriating. There was something about her that just got under his skin so thoroughly…

She threw a sidelong glance at the man they suspected to be Snape in the corner, carefully scanning the wall with a look of casual disinterest.

"How can we get close?" she asked softly, her brow furrowing.

"_What_?" Draco choked. …_Close?_

"To Snape, you moron!" she said impatiently.

"Er—right," said Draco. _Damn. Damn. Damn._ She did it again! "He's going to know who we are about a second after we get close to him—if he suspects. Or he might just read our minds for the hell of it, because everyone here is disguised and he's a quite a bit paranoid sometimes."

"Do you know enough Occulmency to keep him out?" she asked, throwing another nervous glance at him, still trying to look inconspicuous.

"Maybe," said Draco, frowning. "_If_ he doesn't suspect, I can _probably_ block him. But if gets suspicious, we're going to be very, very dead very quickly."

_Or very slowly_…Merlin, he shouldn't have brought her here…

"Well, you're optimism is extremely reassuring," she said dryly. Draco smiled humorlessly.

"Right…" he said slowly. "Well, just in case…the key to Occlumency is too—"

"Clear your mind of thought and emotion," she interrupted immediately. He raised an eyebrow. "I read a book on it when H—er—because it was interesting," she finished lamely.

"Good," he said. He straightened up, gathering his wits about him. He fixed his gaze the target ahead of him, carefully avoiding direct eye contact. "Thirsty?" he asked casually.

Her eyes flitted to the fountain. "Parched."

He released her from his grip and offered her his arm, which she accepted. (That was a relief, actually—his right hand was starting to hurt a little bit. That girl, though her hand was smaller than his, had a grip like a vice…) They strode over to the fountain, pausing against the wall on the side opposite from Snape. Snape didn't seem to notice them—or at least he didn't care.

Granger stared into the gold, crystalline depths of the fountain, speaking quietly to Draco without looking away. Draco poured her a glass of wine and handed it to her. She stared at it in bewilderment for a moment, then, with a small grimace, she took a tentative sip. He wondered if she had _ever_ had anything alcoholic in her life. Probably not. Draco, on the other hand, had been sneaking into the basement of Malfoy Manor to nick a drink ever since he had understood what alcohol _was_. Drinking wasn't much of a taboo, as far as he was concerned, and it's not like he was frequently drunk. He hastily pushed memories of the house out of his mind.

A man wandered over to the fountain and poured out two glasses of wine. Granger and Draco remained at the fountain, silently sipping their drinks. Actually, Granger looked more like she was just periodically sniffing hers and looking wary. Probably wise. It wouldn't help to have her stumbling around drunk…not that it wouldn't be highly entertaining, of course…

The man was leaving, thankfully. Now they just had to get over to—

"Severus?" asked the man, pausing. Snape tore his gaze away from the floor and look up.

"Wilkes," Snape acknowledged him in a low voice. So much for secrecy. Some levels of the operation were closer knit than others, he knew. Snape was quite high in Voldemort's chain of command—probably even higher as of late.

Perhaps this event would be in Draco's honor, if he had been successful in his task. He had been so angry at Snape, earlier that year, for stealing his glory. That bloody Unbreakable Vow…But it was never really his for the taking, was it? He was being manipulated and used and treated like a fool. That was not acceptable. He deserved it, he knew. He let others control him. Threaten him—threaten his family. And he had been helpless to stop them. That, he vowed silently, would never happen again. No matter what the cost. He didn't really have much more to lose, did he?

Swearing silently, he pushed hostile thoughts from his mind again.

"Why so shy, Severus?" asked Wilkes. "This celebration is in your honor, after all."

Snape looked at him, his lip curling. "Hardly," he said distastefully. "This is a simpering waste of the Dark Lord's valuable time."

"Nonsense!" said Wilkes dismissively. "We have much to celebrate. Why when Bellatrix suggested it—"

Snape's black eyes flashed and he leaned forward off the wall in an effort to stand erect. He swayed slightly. Draco took a sip of wine to hide his smirk. Was he _drunk_? Was he that upset about…well—what was he upset about? Maybe this wouldn't involve their untimely deaths after all…

"We should not be wasting our time!" he said fiercely. "This was all Bellatrix's idea, that jealous tart! She just wants to humiliate me with all this archaic nonsense! 'Old Pureblood tradition'—bah!"

Auntie Bella was absolutely mad, though in a quite treacherous and diabolical way. Draco had sort of admired her for that—though she definitely wasn't the most fun person to be around. His Occlumency lessons last year had been somewhat less than enjoyable…

"Hmm…" said Wilkes thoughtfully. "Well, many think Azkaban made her a bit sick about the head…" Snape snorted. "—but do try to have a good time, Severus…"

"Oh, thank you," said Snape, with lavish sarcasm. "I _will_."

Wilkes nodded, looking slightly bewildered, and wandered away with his drinks.

"How about you distract him—and I'll summon the key thing?" offered Hermione quietly. Draco shook his head.

"You can't just summon it," he sighed. "It's warded powerfully against things like that."

"So I have to _pickpocket_ it?" she demanded, her voice shrill. Draco nodded grimly. "Oh, _fantastic_," she grumbled.

000

Malfoy walked away, towards Snape. Hermione flitted nervously behind the fountain, waiting for the right moment to sneak over. She felt more afraid right now. She actually felt better with Malfoy by her side—because of—you know…strength in numbers.

…Right.

Malfoy had engaged Snape in conversation with the ever-so-brilliant "whoops, I almost spilled my glass of elf-made wine on you" routine. Classic. He thankfully didn't actually spill anything—Hermione didn't imagine that coating Snape in alcohol would improve his mood at all.

Draco continued to talk to Snape in causal tones. Hermione waited until Snape's back was tilted away from her. Inhaling deeply, she took a tentative step forward, sliding slowly along the wall. Her breath caught in her throat as she saw a tiny gleam of red from inside his left pocket.

She took another step. _Just a little farther…_

000

Draco avoided Snape's eyes as they spoke—but not so much as to make him suspicious.

"Smashing party," said Draco lazily, leaning up against the wall.

"Quite," said Snape, his voice so toneless it was difficult to tell if he was being sarcastic.

"It was a fine idea to use this place for a celebration," said Draco. He raised his glass. "To the victory of the Dark Lord." Snape regarded him warily for a moment, locking eyes with him. Draco steeled himself as best he could, conjuring up innocuous visions of Diagon Alley and the inside of the Ministry—nothing that could specifically reveal him as anyone in particular.

"To the Dark Lord," repeated Snape, apparently satisfied. Or maybe he was just bored. He clinked his glass lightly against Draco's and turned away.

"I heard about this party through a friend at work just today," said Draco. "Lucky timing, huh? I work at—"

"I have no desire to hear about your personal life in such unambiguous terms," Snape interrupted him sourly. "The Dark Lord values secrecy. Because you seem to be new—" Snape looked at him like he were something he had just scraped off the bottom of his shoe. "—I will tell you this now, for hope of the prevention of future stupidity."

Normally, Draco would have laughed at this, but he did his best to look offended and flustered.

"Well, I'll—" he said. He saw Hermione sneaking up behind Snape. They locked eyes for the briefest moment. She looked a little frightened, but determined. That was what mattered. "I'll keep that in mind. So, this celebration is in honor of the servant who killed that Muggle-loving old fool, Albus Dumbledore, isn't it? I always hated him—doddering old dimwit."

He looked at Snape's face, trying to read his expression. It wasn't visible under the mask—but that wouldn't really have made much of a difference, Draco realized. There was very little distinction between the plain black mask and the expression of closed, cold indifference that usually covered his face. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking, on so many levels.

"The Dark Lord must revere him above all others," said Draco quietly. "Imagine such loyalty…there will be no one to protect the Mudblood filth now…" Hermione was very close to them now. Draco kept talking.

"Our race will finally be purified, once and for all…"

000

Hermione reached out a tentative hand towards Snape's pocket. Snape slouched sideways across the wall, arms crossed, holding his wine glass.

Malfoy kept talking, trying to keep him distracted. The pocket was hanging open slightly, if she flattened herself up against the wall just right, she could almost reach it…

"The Muggleborns will have no one to protect them, now that old fool is gone," continued Malfoy. Hearing Malfoy make small talk about genocide with her former teacher wasn't really putting her at ease, but…her fingertips slipped past the edge of the pocket…he still hadn't noticed her…

"Oh, I don't know about that," said Snape idly. Hermoine felt her hands close on something metallic and cold. Fireworks exploded in her chest! Yes! This was it! She gently pulled the keystone out of the pocket, careful not to disturb anything around it…she had it! Now she just had to—

"Mudbloods can prove quite resourceful when they need to…" he added. Suddenly, Hermione felt a cold hand clasp around her wrist, catching her and the almost stolen keystone in midair.

She froze. Malfoy froze as well. Snape turned his head slightly, eyes downcast and flitting between the two of them. A slow smile appeared on his lips. "Wouldn't you agree, Ms. Granger?"

For a moment, none of them moved. Hermione could hear her heart thundering in her chest. Oh, no. _Oh, no. No. No…_Malfoy looked stunned as well. Hermoine saw his hand moving slowly towards his pocket...

"Now both of you listen to me—" he hissed in his usual icy tones. His hand tightened on hers like a vice. His fingers reminded her of talons, a giant bird of prey squeezing the life out of whatever happened to fall into its clutches...

Malfoy, apparently, decided the listening was not something he was keen on doing. Hermione was inclined to agree, if only to indulge in her instinct to run far, far away from this entire situation as fast as she could. He pulled out his wand. Snape's arms were crossed, limiting his mobility. Seizing her chance, Hermione reached into his other pocket with her free hand, snatched up his wand, and flung it across the room.

"Listen to me, you silly girl!" snarled Snape. The was a small, ever present voice in the back of Hermione's mind reminding her in cool, logical tones that, despite all evidence and everyone else's opinion, the jury was still out on Snape's motivations. However, at the current time, there was a much louder, much more urgent voice screaming, "_RUN!_" Hermoine decided that this voice had a better handle on the situation.

"_Depulso_!" yelled Malfoy. Hermione wretched her hand free of Snape's grasp as he was blasted backwards, skidding across the floor with a look of rage on his now maskless face. The entire room fell silent, hundreds of heads snapping towards their direction.

"Intruders!" screamed someone. As a couple hundred of wands were pulled out of dress robes, Malfoy turned to Hermione, grabbing her hand.

"Run!" he shouted.

Sounded like a plan.

They raced out of the room, dodging curses as they fled into the hall and up the stairs. Harry and Ron, who were sitting at the top of the stairs, pulled off the invisibility cloak as they approached.

"Did you get the—" began Ron. Malfoy pushed him.

"Go!" he said frantically. Angry shouts were rising from below.

"What happened?" demanded Harry as they ran towards the door at the end of the hall—the vault. Malfoy quickly muttered the incantation to open the door and they raced inside, slamming the door behind them. Hermione leaned heavily against the door, breathing shakily.

"The keystone thing—"

"Right here," said Hermione. She held aloft a round red stone, cast partially in silver. She handed it to Harry, who examined it for a moment, before giving it back.

"What happened?" demanded Harry again.

"Snape," said Malfoy. "Snape happened. He caught us and we ran."

"Oh, Harry," said Hermione. "I'm so sorry—it's my fault, I—"

"It's not your fault," said Malfoy suddenly. "You didn't do anything that—"

"Are you sure it's not Malfoy's fault?" asked Ron, glaring at him.

"It's no one's fault!" snapped Harry, which seemed to resolve the debate. "Snape is hard to trick, alright? Malfoy, what's happening down there?"

"Well, I think they're all coming upstairs to kill us, Potter," said Malfoy in a sarcastic voice, who looked a little surprised that Harry was addressing him in such a manner.

"They're must be over a hundred people down there!" said Ron in alarm.

"Two hundred," sighed Hermione, shaking her head in despair. "Maybe more." She could hear people, coming noisily up the stairs…

"Will these doors hold, Malfoy?" asked Harry, ignoring them.

Malfoy shook his head. "They're meant to hold off against ambitious thieves, maybe a few dozen rather nasty intruders…"

"How long?"

"I—I don't know…" he said, his eyes flitting desperately around the room. "Not long…"

What were they going to do? Harry couldn't fight an army. None of them could…the room was completely sealed…

"We're buggered, aren't we?" asked Ron.

"Shut the hell up, Weasley!" snapped Malfoy.

"You shut up, ferret boy!"

"Oh stop it, you're acting like children!" scolded Hermione.

"Oh, right—thanks, Mum!" said Ron. "Now that we're all going to die in _Malfoy Manor_ of all the god-awful places in the world, I think etiquette really mean a lot..."

"It does in this house, I don't know about that rat trap you call—"

"Don't talk about my family, you ponce—"

"Would you two just—"

"HEY!" yelled Harry suddenly. All three of them fell silent. "That's enough."

That was the thing about Harry. It wasn't about the scar or the Patronus or being the "Chosen One"—there was just something about Harry that made him the person you listen to, when things like this happen. Bad things. Sad as it was, this was his element.

"We're all getting out of this just fine," he said in a tone of quiet authority. She believed him when he said that, she really did. He had grown up so much in such a short period.

"Ok—now here's the plan…"

000

**AN:** I'm sorry about the cliffhangers. Every book I've ever read ends with something of a mini-cliffie at the end of each chapter. I think it's just ingrained into my subconscious, lol. Plus, I'm pure evil.

Yeah—there was no kiss in the dancing…but there was some attempted fondling…haha.

Sorry it took so long to update…I was trapped within the hell of midterms! Eep!

And finally…is Snape innocent and misunderstood? Or is he just a jerk? Hmm…

**PS:** **HAPPY HALLOWEEN!**


	16. House Arrest

The glint in his eyes from behind his ratty spectacles was quite enough indication that Potter had come up with a plan.

On a good day, Draco would have told Potter (in a very self-satisfied tone) to shove said plan up his arse, and bugger off.

On a mediocre day, Draco wouldn't need said plan to come from Potter at all—he would have already formulated a brilliant plan to escape this current unpleasantness, and he would currently be contemplating whether or not he should make the rest of his companions grovel in a hilariously undignified fashion before he shared it.

Today however, was turning out to be neither, and Draco was very close to nasty, brutal death unless the Boy-Who-Is-Astonishingly-Self-Righteous could come up with some way out of this situation.

Potter had yet to say anything.

"Well!" demanded Draco, borderline hysterical. "What's the goddamn plan?"

"I'm still perfecting it…" he muttered, looking around the room, his brows furrowed in concentration.

Oh, great! That was his first mistake. Trusting—even for a second—that Harry-fucking-Potter would be able come up with a better plan that he could. (Well—it was a fair estimate considering the only plan Draco could come up with right now involved dying horribly.)

"We could try calling the Order," suggested Weasley.

"I don't think they'd be able to get here fast enough," said Potter, shaking his head.

"There's no way any of your bloody friends would be able to get past the security on the house anyway!" spat Draco.

"Yes, thank you, Malfoy," said Granger, who seemed to have calmed down significantly now that Potter had offered up the potential for a "plan." What the hell? He hadn't even said anything useful yet! Still, the three of them seemed much calmer, now that they were huddled together trying to come up with a plan. Granger seemed to notice his distress, and gave him a small smile. "Don't worry—" she said gently. "We're going to figure a way out of this."

Oh, right! They were all still scared, he could tell! What the hell was wrong with them? They were about minutes away from being blown to bits, and there they were, banded together like a bunch of little heroes on the back of a bloody postcard. '_At least we're together! Teamwork will save us!'_ Merlin! They still managed to make him sick!

Oh, _fuck_. He was going to die.

"If I get out of this," muttered Draco, his eyes drifting idly to Granger. "I'll read a goddamn book every_day_."

She whirled her head around. "Really?" she said, her eyes glittering mischievously. "I'll hold you to that you know…"

"Malfoy," said Potter sharply. "Is there any way out of this room?"

"Yes," he said. Though he didn't see what difference it made. "There's a secret exit—but it takes us back into the stairwell next to the bloody ballroom, which isn't a place I'm too keen on going, I hope you understand _why_—"

"Fine," said Potter, ignoring most of everything else he said. "That's a start." He turned to Granger. "And you said…what? 200 people?"

"Yes," she said, as Weasley winced. "But I don't know if they're all going to come up here to kill us."

"Why not?" asked Potter.

"I don't think they're all actually Death Eaters, professionally speaking," offered Weasley. "I think some of them are, you know, just here for the bloody food. They probably just got invited from work at the Ministry or something. Oy, you should have heard Dad talk about the twits at work, I bet half of them would jumped at a chance to come here and get on the good side of You-Know-Who…" he grumbled.

Potter seemed to ponder this for a moment, not at all surprised that Weasley had said something intelligent. It never failed to astound Draco. Maybe Weasley was hiding a brain in there somewhere. Or maybe all those whacks in the head with the Quaffle had caused his brain cells to start synapsing again…

"Malfoy, how many of these people do you think are going to _actually_ murder us? Half?" asked Potter.

"I don't exactly know—I'm not really a favorite around here…" he sighed. "I don't know. About 50? I actually doubt the more important lieutenants would linger here for too long…" He was starting to feel a little better. Maybe he wouldn't die, after all. At least not right away…

"OK…" said Granger slowly, "So we have a majority of people who are probably just going to stand around and look angry and bewildered…and then about a quarter who _are_ going to try and kill us…"

There was a crashing sound in the hall that caused them all to jump. Their conversation continued with renewed urgency.

"As long as we stay out of the ballroom, we can avoid most of the people actually attacking us—or figuring out what the hell is going on," Granger rattled off, her voice breathless but unwavering. "What we need is a way out of the house."

"There's got to be a Floo Portal around here somewhere," said Weasley, looking around as if he expected to see one at any minute. Idiot! Why the hell would there be a Floo Portal in a security vault? Draco scoffed. But he was right. There were several portals. The main, formal one was in the living room of course, but…

"The closest one to us now is the Master Bedroom of the East Wing, just around the corner," he said, almost dazedly.

"What we _need_ is a distraction," said Potter resolutely. "But first things first." He strode over to the Horcrux case and jammed the keystone into it, twisting it until the glass around the cup dissolved. He snatched it away quickly and hurried back to his friends. "Here—" He thrust the Horcrux into Granger's hands. She looked at him, wide eyed and uncertain.

"Harry—" she began.

"Ron—" he said, turning to Weasley. "Go with Hermione. I need to know both of you—and this—are safe." Granger looked like she desperately wanted to argue. Weasley looked worried, but he nodded, clapping Potter on the shoulder. They shared a meaningful glance. They both knew what was necessary.

It was…odd. Potter trusted Weasley—who was still very stupid in Draco's opinion—to protect the Horcrux _and_ Hermione. How the fuck was Weasel-brain supposed to accomplish that? And that look—they—they _trusted_ each other. With their lives! Draco couldn't really imagine trusting anyone with his life like that. Potter didn't even have to say what he wanted him to do—or order him to do it—or anything. Draco had to spell everything out to Crabbe and Goyle—occasionally with a diagram—and they still barely managed to grasp the concept. Trust. Loyalty. How did he solicit that from him? What was the trick? There _had_ to be a trick somewhere, didn't there?

Draco pushed aside a twinge of something that felt suspiciously like jealousy. Him? Jealous of Potter? _Again_? Well—screw him. He didn't need trust—fear was a way better motivator right? And besides, ordering people around was half the fun!

Hmph. _Weasley_. Granger would be safer with him and he knew it! It was his bloody house!

Potter handed the invisibility cloak to Weasley and pulled something out of his pocket. It was a small, clear cube about the size of an apple, glowing soft and bright with a strange, bluish light.

"What's that?" asked Weasley.

"It's from your brother's shop," said Potter, sounding pleased. "They gave it to me while Draco was having…_fun_ with the ladies' daydream fantasies…" He grinned at Draco, who retaliated with a rather rude gesture that caused Weasley to snigger.

"What does it do?" asked Granger, frowning at Draco. Oh, as if she cared about _his_ propriety. Control freak.

"_Stupefy_!" Potter dropped the cube on the floor and began firing hexes at it. The box twitched slightly, absorbing the curse and glowing a bit brighter, before settling back down, motionless. "_Stupefy_!" he said again.

"What the hell?" demanded Draco.

"It's like—_stupefy_—a 'battery,' according to Fred and—_stupefy_!—George," he explained. "Apparently, they—_stupefy_!—got the idea from their dad's obsession with Muggle—_stupefy_—stuff."

"They really aren't as silly as they like to pretend, are they?" said Granger almost admiringly, shaking her head.

"OK—" said Potter, a little breathlessly. "Now we just have to—"

_CRASH!_

Granger shrieked and they all ducked as several curses blew through the door and ricocheted around the room. Draco's head snapped around. There was a gaping hole in the door to the vault, and it was growing wider with each curse.

"Where's the way out?" demanded Weasley, striding towards Draco, perhaps hoping to shake him.

"This way," he said immediately. He whirled around and they followed quickly as he strode to the far wall of the room. He tapped one of the large oak panels with his wand. "_Dissilapsus_."

The panel slid aside, revealing a narrow, winding passageway. They hurried inside and slid the panel shut, leaving only a thin slit with which to see the rest of the room. Draco, with Potter craning his neck to see above him, leaned around and peeked through the gap, a thin strip of light cutting a sharp line across his face.

The room was rapidly filling up with people, shouting, cursing, and frantically knocking things aside in a vain attempt to find its inhabitants.

"Move," said Potter quietly, without breaking his eye contact with the scene beyond the door. Draco did not argue. Potter slipped his hand around the edge of the panel and pushed it open a little wider. Draco retreated a little further into the darkened passageway. Potter stood motionless for a moment. Draco's heart pounded in a continual crescendo as time ticked by. He could hear the scrambling and crashing as the intruders moved closer to the entrance.

"Gimme the cloak, Ron," he whispered. Weasley shoved the cloak into his hands.

"For fuck's sake, Potter—" Draco hissed, his chest tightening in fear. "What are you—" Potter pulled the cloak over his head and threw open the door, sliding it shut behind him. Granger and Weasley looked mortified. Weasley made as if to lunge towards the door.

"No, Ron!" whispered Granger frantically, pushing him back.

Though rather terrified, Draco couldn't resist. He slid the panel open a crack and searched the room. Wordlessly, Granger and Weasley clambered over to peer over his shoulder. For a moment, nothing—and then, quite suddenly—

Potter pulled off the invisibility cloak and stood casually in the center of the room, grinning broadly. Potter, observed Draco ruefully, is insane.

"Why hello," said Potter in the tone of voice one would use to welcome guests to an afternoon tea party, as over a dozen heads snapped around and stared at him. "Fancy seeing all of you here."

For a split-second, they almost seemed too stunned to react, which Draco couldn't exactly blame them for. Then, naturally, someone screamed,

"Kill him!"

"NO! The Dark Lord wants him alive!"

Granger shifted above him, her breath catching in her throat. Draco could see in the little bit of light that she was suddenly frowning. He also became suddenly aware of how closely they were pressed together, trying to peer through the same narrow slit in the door. She didn't seem to notice at all—in her eyes she seemed miles away, and worried.

Still grinning cheerily, Potter pulled the glowing cube out of his pocket and crouched low to the ground. In the moment it took for the other inhabitants of the room to start forward menacingly, he tossed the cube up in the air, where it spun rapidly at about eye level. Potter whipped out his wand and aimed it straight upwards, at the cube.

"_Librum Incantatem!" _

Potter flattened himself further on the floor as the cube shattered. Waves of blue light shot straight out in all directions, colliding with the heads of every upright person in the room and knocking them onto the floor. Draco gaped. Weasley gave a small whoop of triumph. Apparently not one to stay and gloat over his victory—(Draco would have felt inclined to at least a little bit of gloating, perhaps a nice kick to the rump of one of the charming people stunned on the floor)—Potter scrambled to his feet and ran back towards the passageway.

"Time to go!" he said loudly. They all obliged willing, slamming the oak panel behind them and hurtling down the passage in his wake.

000

A standard Stunning Spell will last for 12 to 24 hours, given an average to strong magical efficaciousness of the caster, and the resistance strength of the receiver. The spell can be immediately countered with a standard awakening spell, otherwise known as Ennervation.

Hermione was fairly certain that spreading a stunning spell over that large of a radius would seriously deplete its effects, even with a caster as powerful as Harry. They could have as little as five minutes before they all woke up again. Or perhaps less. However, she had other things to think about at the current moment.

They raced through the narrow, winding passageway, churning up dust beneath their feet as they went. The tunnel ended abruptly at a solid wall, where they paused, panting.

"What's next, mate?" asked Ron.

"Well—" Harry looked around. "I'm sort of making this up as I go…"

Breathe, she instructed herself. _Breathe_! She much preferred plans that were thought out in advance. Well in advance. And written down neatly in a nice dayplanner, right next to "Research Charms Essay!" This apparently, was not one of those plans.

"_Kill him!"_

She turned the Horcrux over in her hand, watching it glitter dully in the light from their wands. She hung back slightly in the hall. Ron and Harry were nearer to the end of the tunnel, arguing or possibly just trying to work out the logistics of a plan. She distinctly heard Ron hissing the phrase "too dangerous!" at least a dozen times.

"_NO! The Dark Lord wants him alive!"_

Something was wrong here…a lot of things. There was something—_something_ she was missing. There had to be. However—one conundrum at a time…

There was something a little…_off_ about the Horcrux. It seemed different from the last one. She turned it over again with her hand and tapped it gently with her wand. There was a useful little spell to reveal the hidden magical signature of things—test how old they were—how powerful they were. She stared at the cup. Her eyes widened.

Oh, _dear_.

000

"Are you _mad_, Harry?" demanded Weasley, in an angry but controlled voice.

_Yes_, supplied Draco silently, resisting the strong urge to roll his eyes. They were bickering about the best way to get themselves killed. Did he say killed? He meant the best way to escape. Yeah. Right. Escape.

They were so doomed.

"Look, Ron—just go—let me worry about that—" said Potter dismissively. He had slid open the panel at the end of the passage open a crack, and was peering through at the surrounding stairwell.

Weasley looked irate. "C'mon mate—it's way too dangerous for you to go out alone—" he said almost pleadingly.

"I—er—" Potter tipped his head towards Draco. "won't be totally alone, you know…" he offered.

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?" snapped Weasley, glaring at Draco. Draco scowled at the Weasel. As if he was _happy_ he was being dragged down into some death trap with Potty! Merlin and Agrippa.

"Ron, please—" said Potter, whirling around. "We need to do this, alright? I don't like it either, but…"

"We're doing this with you, remember?" he said crossly. "Wherever you're going!"

Potter clapped his hand heartily onto Weasley's shoulder. "I'm coming back, Ron. OK? 'No turning back,' don't _you_ remember? I promise."

Oh, Merlin, were they having a _moment_? He pantomimed gagging motions in the dark, which they either ignored or didn't notice. He looked around. Why wasn't Granger sharing in their cuddly Gryffindor specialness? He saw her hanging slightly around the corner, slightly out of sight in the darkness of the crooked passageway.

She was cradling the golden teacup in her hand, looking stricken. He absently wandered towards her.

"Are you alright?" he asked, the words slipping out of his mouth before he could stop them. Damn. Maybe he was going soft.

She looked up at him in surprise, the panicked look in her eyes registering something that Draco had momentarily forgotten. Oh, right. They were all going to die! Is that what was worrying her?

There were a million things he wanted to say to her in that moment, but he just didn't have the words for any of them. How could that be? He was never tongue tied. Well—rarely. "Don't—don't hesitate," he said uncomfortably. "Go. It'll be fine."

She looked like she almost wanted to smile remorsefully. So now _he's_ trying to comfort _her_? Ironic, of course. But something else flickered in her eyes. He tried to look away, but he just couldn't.

"Be careful," she said, her voice almost a whisper. They stared at each other. His brain screamed for him to say something—anything. You should be careful, too. _I hope you do die, Mudblood!_ If you don't make it out of here—I don't have anything. _Thank you._ You'll know the vase, it's black and gold. Thank you. Please—please—I'm sorry. _Bitch! What are doing to me? _He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. They stood there, silent, in the darkened passage. Draco felt like time had slowed down to an agonizing crawl, or perhaps, stopped entirely.

And then he did it. Quick as a flash, like he was reaching out to snatch up the Snitch, he—he kissed her. It couldn't have been more than a second. He seized her shoulders and pressed their lips together for the briefest of moments, before pulling away and stumbling backwards dizzily in a haze of softness and warmth.

She stared at him, her eyes widened in shock. But—not rage. At least he hoped not. Instead, her eyes were shimmering softly, over-bright and brimming with a sense that she might possibly be as confused as he was. She also looked like she was considering whether or not she should slap him across the face. Again.

It was different, because now he was even more uncertain than before. Something else had driven him to her lips this time. Something more than the desire he felt in that moment of madness on the train. They both knew it. He could see it in her eyes. It wasn't disgust or pain so much as it was…fear.

Trying not to focus too keenly on it, he turned and walked over to Potter. Potter and Weasley looked at him, apparently oblivious. Weasley draped the invisibility cloak over his arm. Granger strode up to join them, still looking rather stricken. Was that _his_ fault? No, she looked upset before that, right? Right?

"C'mon," whispered Weasley urgently. He grasped Granger's wrist. "Let's go!"

"But—" cried Granger, looking frantically at Potter. Weasley started to pull her. "Wait—"

"No time for that," said Draco loudly, wondering if she was going to mention his recent indiscretion and significantly shorten the span of Draco's life. He ushered them towards the opening. "Up the stairs, second door on the left!"

Draco saw Granger open her mouth in protest one last time before she and Weasley disappeared under the invisibility cloak. The panel slid open and shut quickly, and he and Potter were left all alone in the passage.

"So, explain to me this brilliant plan of yours again…"

Potter sighed. He explained the plan.

Draco groaned. "Right. I just wanted to see if it was still the worst bloody plan I have ever heard in my life." Potter tilted his head questioningly. "Don't worry," Draco assured him. "It's _still_ the _worst_ plan I've ever heard." Potter frowned and turned away, pushing open the panel and stepping out into the staircase. He stood backwards at the edge of the door leading into the ballroom, gripping his wand tightly and grimacing.

"Ready?" he asked, casting a quick glance over his shoulder. Draco nodded grimly. "OK—and Malfoy?"

"What?" Draco stepped out of the passageway so he was directly facing Potter.

"Try not to have too much fun cursing me, eh?"

"Don't worry," he reassured him, raising his wand to eye level and smirking. "I _will_!"

"_EVERTO_!"

Potter flew backwards through the door and skidded across the ballroom floor, amidst the shocked gazes of onlookers. He immediately leapt to his feet again yelling theatrically.

"Malfoy, you traitorous bastard!" he cried, as Draco strode purposefully into the ballroom. "_INCURSA_!" Draco skidded sideways, as the curse grazed his cheek.

"How dare you, Potter! This is my house! _PERCUSSUM_!"

"_IMPEDIMENTA_!"

"_INCARCEROUS_!"

"_PROTEGO_!"

The occupants of the room gaped at them, obviously unsure if they should join in or not. Both of them seemed to be kicking each other's arses quite efficiently thank you very much. Actually, neither of them were aiming to do any serious damage, though Draco couldn't resist catching Potter head on with a Stinging Hex. Heh heh. Hey—it was suitable revenge after that curse he had thrown at him that day in the bathroom.

"_RICTUSEMPRA_!"

Where did Potter learn Dark Magic anyway? And why was he so goddamn good at it? Not that Draco was intimidated. At all! Potter was extremely unthreatening. So there.

"_PALMULA_!" Draco reeled as he was slapped upside the head with the force of the jinx. Trying as they were, not to do any real harm—well—what did Potter expect? Moron.

Apparently, someone had organized the inhabitants of the room while they were distracted. Quite a few people raised their wands. Potter threw an apologetic glance at Draco just before quite a few stunning charms attempted to blast them in several different directions. Compensating for the misdirection, Draco collapsed to the ground right where he was, unconscious.

000

They walked carefully, but quickly through the hallway. They were still alone—the stunning charm must not have worn off yet.

"Hermione—" said Ron, frowning in confusion. "Are you OK? Harry's being a git about this, I know—but I'm sure everything will be OK…"

Hermione shook her head, trying to refocus on the task at hand—not getting massacred by Death Eaters. "I—I know, Ron," she said, looking up to throw him a weak smile. "It's just—never mind...we'll worry about it later." _Focus. It doesn't matter now.._.

Something stirred ahead of them, and they both froze. Ron pulled them both until they were flat against the wall, slowly pulling out his wand and staring determinedly down the corridor. People were slowly emerging from behind the smoking, ruined hulk that had been the door to the vault. Hermione looked around. Second door on the left. There it was! She tugged Ron's wrist and they hurried across the hall and into the room.

Ron let out a low whistle as he looked around the room. Everything was rich and overly decorated—to the point of absurdity in Hermione's opinion. Honestly. How many yards of velvet curtain could you hang over a bloody bedpost before it snapped off? She could hear footsteps coming down the hall. She started towards the fireplace—

The door swung open suddenly, and several of the masked partygoers entered, sweeping the room with suspicious, narrowed eyes. Ron grabbed her and pulled her backwards. They both stood stalk still against the wall behind the door, afraid to breathe. The Death Eaters were between them and the fireplace…

"_BANG_!"

The sound from downstairs was muffled, but intense nonetheless.

Harry…Draco…

"_Crash_!"

The inhabitants of the room snapped around, giving up their search of the room in favor of racing downstairs to investigate. Hermione breathed a sigh of relief, but still couldn't shake the feeling of being even more terrified for the wellbeing of her friends.

Ron had that look on his face. That look that said, "I should go down there and join them, so I can get captured or possibly killed!"

"No, Ron," said Hermione sharply. "You were right. Let's go." They moved towards the fireplace. Ron, who was much taller, grabbed an ornate black vase off the top and opened the lid, revealing a wealth of fine gray dust. He scooped out a handful and handed the pot to her. She took a handful as well.

"You go first," he said. She sighed. "They'll be fine, Hermione."

She bit her lip. "It's—it's not that." She took a step towards the fireplace. "It's actually about the Horcrux." She threw her handful of dust into the fire. "Number 12 Grimmauld Place!" she annunciated clearly.

"Tell me," he said curiously.

She told him, stepping into the flames as she did so.

The last thing she saw was the hysterical look on his face before she was sucked into the Floo Network.

"IT'S WHAT?" he bellowed.

000

Draco woke up in a cell in his family's dungeon, tired, sore, and angry. He was also rather exhausted, having been hit directly and indirectly by a large number of unpleasant hexes. He lay on the floor of the dungeon, panting. He tilted his head to see Potter lying in about the same state. Neither of them seemed to have the energy to get up, though neither was grievously injured.

"Buggering hell," grumbled Draco. "I think I need medical attention."

"Stop whining, Malfoy," said Potter in a raspy voice, coughing up a small amount of what seemed to be blood. Draco wasn't sure whether to be pleased or disgusted.

"We're locked in a dungeon, Potter," he pointed out crossly, glaring up at the ceiling.

"Completely part of the plan," he rasped evenly. "Provided you can keep up your end of the bargain."

Oh, right. Still…

Summoning what strength he had left, he rolled over slightly and kicked Potter as hard as he could in the shoulder, mostly because it happened to be near his foot. Unfortunately, all the strength he could muster at the moment was not very much. He scowled, flopping back to his original position.

"I fucking hate you, Potter."

"Oh, good," he replied, smirking. "I was beginning to worry that you had gone completely crackers, Malfoy."

000

**AN:** Yes, I'm very sorry. LOOOONG space between updates. This chapter gave me a lot of trouble for some reason. Possibly because the possible plots were branching out in a dozen different directions and I couldn't choose one. Arg! But, never fear, here is the chapter complete with the plot mapped out. Also, I had total writer's block on the escape plan.

_Draco:_ (beats Harry with a large, blunt instrument) "How are we going to get out of here, Potter?"

_Harry:_ "…"

_Authoress:_ "Wait a minute…I have no freakin' clue!"

I'm sorry, I don't "plot ahead" nearly as well as I should. Ah well…plus, I had to write about 40 pages worth of assignments in World Politics. Maybe I should have had Hermione lecture everyone about the United Nations and the International Criminal Court. Or possibly the war in Kosovo. I totally did research on that! No? Ah, well, back to the Horcruxes it is.

**Here's another quickie poll:**

There will be lots more Snape next chapter. So, in terms of **Wormtail's **appearance:

1-Yes! He's so important, I want to see him now!

2-A little cameo, not much.

3-Maybe a mention, no appearance. Eww. Save him for later in the story.

4-No Wormtail ever. Let's pretend he's dead. Or in Antarctica.


	17. Fight or Flight

"He's a git, Hermione." Ron tucked his hands lazily behind his head, lounging casually on the couch of Number 12 Grimmauld Place and sighing. "He's always been a git, he'll always be a git."

"I know," said Hermione, frowning. She brushed a bit of ash off her robes, frowning at the futility of the effort. She thumped down heavily on the couch next to Ron. "But he _is_ helping us."

Maddened by nervous habit, Ron's hands flinched compulsively, itching to do something, anything useful. Something to help his friend. But there was nothing to be done. Nothing except sit, and wait, and try his best to look unperturbed, so as not to worry Hermione.

He was doing a rather good job of it, she observed, though she knew him well enough to know that he was about ready to explode, and perhaps ricochet around the room, gibbering and cursing Malfoy. Hermione couldn't compete with his level of nervousness anyway, though she was far from calm herself.

"Yeah," said Ron, hollowly. "What's in it for him, I wonder?"

_Vengeance, I think_, she thought quietly. _But that's a start_.

"He's not going to leave Harry to die, you know," she said. "At least I don't _think_ so…" They both had sunk into the couch, exhausted, and were staring blankly up at the ceiling. They had been waiting for hours.

Ron chose to grumble rather than acknowledge that with an answer. It was rather magnanimous, she thought, for him to imply that she was right with mumbling rather than leap to his feet and scream that Malfoy was some manner of infectious, hairy rodent. However true it might be.

"Why are you defending him all of a sudden?" said Ron, irritated.

"I'm not," retorted Hermione immediately. "I'm just _saying_—"

"You hate him just as much as we all do!" Ron looked defensive.

"Ron—"

"You complain about him all the time! Remember when you slapped him across the face?" asked Ron. "Those were good times."

"Yes, of course, I do," she said impatiently, going a tad bit pink in the cheeks.

_His silver eyes flashed, darkening. "You don't know anything about me."_

"_You are disgusting," she said, her voice an angry hiss. His hand continued to tighten around her wrist. _

"Look, Ron," she said. "It's not that he isn't still nasty and rude, but—I think he's grown up a bit, honestly. He hasn't seen the things Harry has. Merlin, he hasn't even seen the things we have—he was awfully sheltered. Maybe—"

_He buried his face in his hands. He was pale and cold, and blood oozed from beneath his torn sleeve, trickling down his arm. "For awhile, all I had was hate, and I thought I could live with that. Because it was easy, and it was simple, and familiar, and comfortable...And now—I can't even hate you properly anymore! And I feel empty…cold. I just want to feel…anything…I feel like I'm dead, already, it's just that for some reason I'm still walking around..."_

She touched her hand to her cheek. "I think we should give him a chance."

Ron laughed, as close to a dark laugh as he could come without losing that indefinable quality that made him Ron. "You think it was _shelter_ he got in that big, horrid house?" Hermione looked at him quizzically. He paused, then looked exasperated. "We have given him a chance. If we had opted not to give him a chance, he would be dead on your front lawn."

"Ron!" she said shrilly. Ron shrugged. Hermione sighed. It was true, she supposed. But…without him, they wouldn't have gotten this far. His house, his blood leading them towards the diary…her life…

Ron rolled his eyes. "He's evil," he said flatly.

Hermione sighed, exasperated. How could he be so simplistic, still? Honestly. "He's not evil, Ron. He's only 17. He hasn't actually succeeded in doing anything nastier than making first years cry. Don't be so juvenile."

Ron turned towards her and stared at her so intensely she almost shivered. In that instant, she remembered how well someone could know you, after spending six years as your best friend.

"I'm not being simplistic, Hermione," he said sharply. "He's a _Malfoy_. _Evil_ is in that precious, pure _blood_ he's so preoccupied with. There is a Dark Mark burned on his arm. And don't tell me," he said, his eyes narrowing, "that he didn't smile like it was Christmas when that thing was seared onto his skin."

_She brushed her fingertips softly against his somewhat mangled forearm. "It's just a scar."_

For a moment, she was speechless. "I—"

"You don't know him, Hermione," said Ron in a voice of rare seriousness, his eyes somewhat wider than normal and flickering with worry. She opened her mouth to protest, but he cut her off. "No," he said. "You don't. The Malfoys and the Weasleys have been fighting for hundreds years, and with good reason. That family is very old, and very dark, and—just don't. Don't try to be his friend. Nothing good can come of it. He doesn't need that. What he really _needs_ is a good strong curse to the head, but…well—I'm pretty sure I can't convince you or Harry to let him stop helping us…" Ron looked away finally, shaking his head. "There's a darkness in him, Hermione. I don't care if I'm the only who sees it."

_It was soft, and warm as their lips pressed together, for the briefest of moments in the darkened passageway._

_She had expected it to be cold. _

_But then again, she really hadn't expected anything at all. _

He closed his eyes. "You can't save him, and he's a right little bastard anyway, so he's not worth it. He's not worth anything, Hermione. Just don't. That scumbag doesn't deserve pity from someone like you."

_She suppressed a shiver, because somewhere in the back of her mind--she had to wonder if it was too late to escape...for both of them._

Hermione wrung her hands nervously in her lap. Not worth anything? He had to be wrong about that…didn't he? Maybe. She did hate him quite a bit, as she had for years. He was a nasty little brat, but underneath that, there was…something else there. Maybe Ron was right. Maybe it wasn't worth it anyway. He couldn't change.

Could he?

She felt the urge to berate Ron in a tirade of righteous indignation. How far gone could he possibly be—he was only 17! It felt so wrong to give up on anyone. But she didn't say a word.

Because deep down, she had been worried about exactly the same thing.

000

_Draco was 13. He hurried down the large, ornate passageways of Malfoy Manor, robes fluttering behind him, trying to propel his significantly shorter legs to keep up with his father's much longer ones. He barely noticed his father had stopped abruptly before a vaulted, empty doorway and a set of long, winding stairs. That is, until he came dangerously close to crashing headlong into the head of his father's cane, extended across his path like a shining silver and black gate. _

_His father stood still, tall and regal, staring coolly down at the expanse of stone stairs before him. Draco stood next to him. The stairs were stone, and grey like the floor, and they seemed to curve and disappear abruptly into the vastness, shapeless dark of the room below. _

_Draco fidgeted. He did not like the basement. The basement was dark, cold, and he was fairly sure it must contain at least a several dozen dark and horrible creatures. OK, he knew for a fact that there were no dark creatures in the basement (at least none that were alive), but his imagination candidly informed him that if he walked down those stairs he would be ripped to shreds. He did not much fancy being ripped to shreds, he thought, unconsciously rubbing his hand where that wretched rogue beast had attacked it earlier. Stupid thing. And that stupid oaf of a teacher._

_He hoped sincerely it would get executed. His father was already pulling strings to get such an event accomplished. He had even talked to McNair, an old friend of the family._

_They were a very distinguished family._

_He felt the cane pressing against his chest anyway. "Stand up straight," his father commanded, not looking at him. "Your posture is atrocious."_

_If he had bothered to look at him, Draco thought, scowling, his father would realize that he was standing as straight as he possibly could, as straight as he always did, and he often wondered if it was genetically impossible for him to slouch. _

_Don't slouch. Part of a very, very long list of things that comprised the unwritten laws of Pureblooded behavior._

_Stand up straight. Family honor comes above all else. Treat every vow as Unbreakable—a Malfoy's word is his bond. Do not hit a woman, outside of armed combat._

_The code was less specific, however, about screaming at them until they turned and swept silently out of the room, lips drawn tightly shut into a pale, pearly-pink line. Of course—there were always the occasions where Draco would walk in on his parents arguing, wands drawn, eyes blazing with both amusement and fury. He would, naturally, walk as quickly as possible in the opposite direction, for he wasn't entirely sure that the bangs, shouts, and moans that resulted from the altercation were hostile, and at he was quite sure they were not something he ever wanted to see._

_At least, he might have to gauge his eyes out of he did. And vomit. _

"_Downstairs," said his father coolly, extending his cane down the stairs. Draco obeyed wordlessly._

_He wielded that cane so imperiously, thought Draco. Like it was a scepter or something. It did look an awful lot like a scepter. He had probably had it specifically fashioned that way. 'All hail Lucius Malfoy, Lord and Reigning King of the Staircase! Supreme Overlord, with immaculate, shiny hair…' Draco smirked, only to be rewarded with a sharp crack across the shoulders with the cane._

"_What are you smirking about?" snapped his father. _

"_Nothing, father," said Draco immediately. He did not appreciate being whacked with that cane, particularly since it happened with such frequency. His father did not beat him, not viciously; he never had. However, the frequent cracks he got were hardly gentle, though rarely quite hard enough to leave a bruise. _

_Bruises were unseemly, though easily healed. _

_Image had to be maintained. What did they have, if not reputation? _

_They made their way farther down the stone passageway. Blue-ish flames sprung to life on the mounted torches as they passed, bathing them both in pale, eerie light. His father finally paused as the passageway spilled out into a slightly wider cavern. Several cages, complete with heavy, wrought iron bars had been roughly hewn out of the walls. He turned, his cloak sweeping out dramatically behind him, and stood before Draco, head held haughtily high._

"_Our family," he said, his gray eyes glittering in the gloom of the dungeons, "is very old and very powerful. And as such…our family has gathered many enemies."_

_It was cold, and his father's voice seemed to echo forever on the many rough angles of the walls. Draco nodded, almost eagerly. His father was so strong, infallible, cunning... _

"_We have been taking the necessary precautions to protect ourselves for the possibility of attack, from within," he stared very harshly at Draco. "Or without our family." Draco nodded again._

"_One day it may prove necessary for you to make use of this particular room," he continued, gesturing around the dungeons. He strode over to one of the cells and tucked his cane under his arm, puffing his chest our importantly. He looked like a statue, Draco reflected, or white marble. Of diamond. Of ice. _

"_These locks are specifically calibrated to hold only those we wish to be held," explained Lucius. "They will become yours one day, with this house. You are my only heir; that is your blood right. These walls… will obey you." _

_His father paused then, and stared at him, as if willing him to test it out. Hesitating only slightly, he reached forward, his fingers meeting with the heavy iron lock._

_He jumped back with a sharp intake of breath as the bolt on the door sent an angry shock through him. He clutched his hand, and looked at his father in surprise. _

"_Certain spells must be used to disarm it, first, of course," said his father lazily, his lips pursed into something that was not quite a smile. _

_He couldn't have just said that in the first place, thought Draco, his thoughts tinged with bitterness. He scolded himself. His father was a great man. Besides, Draco was foolish. It was the hidden lesson he had already learned this lesson again and again._

_Trust was weakness. And pain was an excellent teacher. _

000

Draco had, upon returning to school that year, had partaken in many glorious fantasies of locking Potter, and possibly his stupid friends, in his own private dungeons. He pictured himself slamming the door on their astonished, horrified faces, and then gliding away, smirking victoriously—knowing that once and for all, he had won. Perhaps in a week or so he would come back and offer them food and water.

Maybe, if he was feeling generous. And they asked him nicely.

Draco felt a prickle in the back of his neck. He turned to see Potter, sitting against the wall of the cell, staring at him. It was dark in the cell, and his green eyes seemed to glitter from beneath the tangle of messy hair. Potter raised an eyebrow.

"Wow, Malfoy, you look almost nostalgic. Time in the inside of a prison cell reminding you of your family?"

"Not particularly, Potter," he said curtly, mentally pushing away the ghosts of the past. "Though I do think of my father from time to time. He is after all, _alive_ somewhere. Perhaps I should visit him."

Potter didn't respond, though something familiar flickered in his eyes. Draco tried to smile, but he felt rather unenthusiastic. Pain. How many times had he worked to elicit that exact response from his enemy? For the better part of six years, it seemed. And for what? It felt like a strangely hollow victory. Why bother? For years, it seemed his very happiness was contingent upon making Potter miserable. Now there were much bigger things in both of their worlds. Potter's misery was rather inconsequential—it wouldn't rebuild the world he was missing…

"Azkaban is rather a toothless werewolf, now that the Dementors have left. He must be terribly bored. It must have been unbearable for the morons stuck in there before, for all those years…"

Draco smiled in earnest at the look on Potter's face. Oh, well. He'd take what he could get, he supposed. Not that he had anything better to do. After all, it was entirely Potter's fault that he was locked in this fucking cage in the first place. He thought about kicking him again, but was well aware that he would probably be rewarded with a punch to the stomach, and decided against it. Potter tried, of course, to hide what he was feeling, but it was a futile effort; his face was like an open book. Honestly—_Gryffindors_. Potter shuffled to his feet.

"Can you—" Potter reached towards the lock on the door, and Draco instinctually reached out to stop him, snatching up his wrist.

"Really not a good idea, Potter," he said casually.

Potter retracted his hand, sighing. "Can you get us out or not? You said before—"

Draco smirked. "Why, I'm hurt, Potter. People have raved about the hospitality of the Malfoys for centuries."

"Really? Do the Malfoy's have a habit of getting their guests wildly drunk upon arrival, then?" retorted Potter dryly.

"Why?" said Draco lazily, loosening his cufflinks. "Are you interested? I bet I could have the house elf bring us up a bottle."

Potter rested his head on the stone wall with thud, which couldn't have been comfortable. "My god you're annoying, Malfoy."

"So I've heard. Though I can't imagine I'm any less unbearable that your _usual_ company." He clinked his cufflinks against the bars, sending a dull ringing echo throughout the cave. He continued this for several minutes.

He could feel Potter's eyes boring into the back of his head. "I'm not going to ask."

"I'm starting a cufflink bell choir, Potter," he said, not bothering to repress a smirk. Potter grunted. "I know—I'm a man of many talents."

Finally, Draco was rewarded with the dull shuffling of tiny, ugly feet. A pair of large ears and round, watery eyes and popped into view. The house elf bobbed and weaved in the shadows of the dungeons, as if expecting invisible attack at any moment. Its tiny hands were clenched together.

"The Master rings, rings for Spuffy." The tiny elf raced forward and bowed before Draco. "What is it that the Master desires?" The house elf looked up and paused suddenly, its large eyes bemused. "Why is the Master in a cage?" it asked, bewildered.

Draco straightened up, trying to look as imperious as possible—though he was somewhat hindered by the fact that he was in a goddamn cage. He heard Potter snicker behind him and decided to ignore it.

"You will bring us our wands elf," barked Draco, now quite irritated. Being locked in a cell with Harry Potter was pretty much as the top of his list for 'Places That Would Provide Enough Impetus for Immediate Suicide.' "You will tell no one I have sent you. And you will _not_ be seen." The elf looked terrified. "Well?" he snapped irritably. "Get going!" The elf nodded quickly and scampered away.

"You need that wand for disarming the cage?" asked Potter.

"No," said Draco, staring intently at the door.

In the late 1400's, Tiberius Anthony Malfoy had gone through seven wives in a spectacularly short amount of time. Naturally, he also collected a preponderance of bastard as well as legitimate children. Through constant bickering and the occasional poisoning, the 9 sons, 4 daughters, and their seven very irate (and decidedly unattractive) mothers finally managed join together and plot to overthrow their father and confiscate all his worldly possessions.

They could worry about murdering each other later, of course. Heartwarming, really. Probably the closest to family togetherness the Malfoys have ever come.

However, being a Malfoy as well, Tiberius was quite intent on not being strangled, suffocated, stabbed, cursed, or poisoned. In fact, all he really wanted to do was live in luxury with his mountains of galleons and new mistress, who was blonde, beautiful and twenty years younger than him. Quite understandable. He therefore immediately went to work renovating the dungeons below the house. Using a rather complex set of very old, dark magicks, he installed several cages furnished with goblin wrought iron.

No Malfoy, that is to say, none of legitimate family blood, could be imprisoned within the dungeons unless they had been specifically put there by someone else of legitimate family blood. This quite succinctly took care of the ex-wives, mistresses, and 6 bastard children, a valiant team effort that should have theoretically culminated in the sharing of the estate with the other 7 legitimate children.

As it turns out, those seven children were all mysteriously poisoned within a week of each other, and the estate went to the three sons he fathered with his new, very attractive wife—that, however, is a story for another time.

"I need something else," said Draco, rolling up his already loosened sleeves. "Have you got a knife on you Potter?"

"I left the sword at Grimmauld Place," he said, shrugging casually.

"Hmm…" said Draco dully. Ah, well. He would just have to make do with what he had. He unpinned the cloak pin from his neck and pulled back the silver pin.

"Are you going to pick the—" Potter stopped abruptly, wincing, as Draco jammed the pin into his thumb. "—lock," he finished, looking rather revolted.

Draco ignored him, continuing his task with a look of casual disinterest. _Ow._ He yanked the pin out of his thumb and squeezed a few drops of blood onto the lock. Dark Magic. Right good fun sometimes—but all that ritual bloodletting was something of a drag.

"_Combibo cruentus mei et pateo." _The lock clicked and the door swung open with a protesting shriek of metal against stone. Draco smiled and strode out, feeling rather accomplished. Potter walked out behind him, looking around the room. Draco turned to wipe the blood from the lock.

"What are you doing? We have to get out of here—" said Potter, huffily.

"You can't just leave bits of your blood lying about Potter—" He stopped suddenly, cursing under his breath. Draco heard the footfalls of someone coming down the passage. Both of them dashed sideways and flattened themselves against the wall.

"It only sounds like one person," said Potter, straining his head slightly around the corner.

"Very good Potter! And count with me—how many wands does it take to kill two unarmed wizards within 3 seconds?" Draco snapped sarcastically. "I suppose we could make a run for it…"

"We're going to have to run pretty fast for that plan to work."

"I don't have to run that fast, Potter," said Malfoy, smiling pleasantly. "I just have to outrun _you_."

Scowling, Potter shushed him. The lone figure had emerged in the dungeons. His face was obscured from view by a long, hooded cloak. He stared at the ajar door to the cell, He wiped some of the blood from the lock with a cloth and spread some of it on the tip of his wand, examining it carefully. Then, lazily, he muttered a spell, thrusting the tip of the wand forward. For a moment, nothing happened. Then—

"OW!" yelped Draco in surprise. He doubled over, gasping for breath, feeling as though a particularly obese dragon had trampled his midsection. The noise bounced around the dungeons with a sharp, ringing echo. The figure's head snapped to their direction, a smile plastered on his lips.

"Dammit, Malfoy!" grumbled Potter, pulling him upright and slamming him against the wall, looking irritated. Draco coughed as the air rushed back into his lungs. Draco turned and glared at his idiotic compatriot.

"That," he wheezed, "is why one can't leave blood sitting around!"

"Admirable as your ploy to educate, Mr. Potter may be, Draco," said the figure, who was now standing between them and the exit to the dungeons, in a silky voice, "I have come to the unfortunate conclusion that all attempts to cure his indomitable ignorance are quite futile."

And, without even bothering to look at the figure, who had thrown back his hood, Draco had identified the voice.

Snape.

"It is with _that_ attitude," said Draco in a mock reproachful voice, shrugging casually. He wasn't terribly pleased to see Snape. After last year's debacles, (in which, he might add, Snape had been extremely unhelpful) Draco had come to like his favorite teacher less and less. In fact, by the end of the year, he had rather hoped he would accidentally poison himself with a potions experiment.

That, however, was nothing compared to the look on Potter's face.

It wasn't the usual, sullen, rebellious dislike that had etched its way into Potter's face for the past six years in school, cross armed and hunched at the breakfast table and glaring, while Draco smirked from across the hall. There was a hardness gleaming in his eyes, a resolved and burning hatred. There were a great many things about Potter and his friends that confused the hell out of him—but here was something he could understand. It was that look—that look that burned and froze at the same time. He wanted to kill him. And he wanted to watch him die. He wanted vengeance for the death of his favorite teacher. It was justified. It was _righteous_, in his eyes.

Whether or not he would actually do it was the question. And, as he pondered it, Draco realized that he really, in essence, did not know the boy standing next to him at all. Draco thought he could—and Potter couldn't—and that was the difference between them. Well—that theory didn't run out quite the way he planned on _his_ end.

Snape stared back at him, yellow teeth bared, a look of hate on his face that he seemed to have, over the years, reserved specifically for Potter. Potter stared at him, expression icy, posture rigid, as though tensed to spring at any moment and tear Snape apart limb from limb.

_Well, this is fun_, thought Draco, crossing his arms. Hmm—maybe if these two killed each other he could escape unscathed…

"If you are going to kill us," spat Potter, through clenched teeth. "Just do it."

"_Us_?" blurted out Draco. "Going to kill '_us'_? Hey now—"

Snape looked as though he were struggling internally, though he was so externally frozen it came off looking merely as though he had an unpleasant taste in his mouth. "Dumbledore—"

"DON'T—" interrupted Potter, his expression livid, "you DARE say his name, you murdering piece of SHIT!" His hands were clenched tightly at his sides, the skin of his knuckles stretched and white. "You don't deserve to. If you say his name again, I will _kill_ you."

"Brash," he spat, his black eyes flashing distastefully in Potter's direction. "Arrogant, idiotic, self-righteous—" Snape raised his wand, pointing at Potter's throat. Potter didn't even flinch. He glared at him, his eyes blazing. Hatred poured off of him in crashing, suffocating waves. "Uncooperative and obstinate, foolish child. You haven't changed a bit. Unarmed, you would dare to threaten me?"

"That wasn't a threat," he said, without a hint of fear in his voice. "It was a promise."

Draco would have laughed, if this situation weren't so desperately unfortunate. Potter was no more likely to kill Snape in his current position that he was to escape from the dungeons without being killed—or for that matter—coming up with a plan that was actually well thought out. He had calculated his odds of survival, and they really weren't comforting. Besides—he had already thrown in his lot with Potter. If Wonder-Boy went down—he was going down too. And he might as well get used to that.

"Oh, stuff it, Potter," said Draco harshly, "before you drown in righteous indignation." Potter turned to him, irritated.

"You stuff it, Malfoy," he snapped.

"I can't say much for your choice in company, Draco," said Snape, who much to Draco's relief, still had his wand trained on Potter.

"Me neither," said Draco mournfully. "Though I have to say it's something of an improvement—he hasn't tried to kill me yet."

"Oh, yes," said Potter sarcastically. "We're becoming fast friends."

"Shut up, both of you!" hissed Snape, looking frustrated. "I have no time to waste with your foolishness."

"Why?" Potter glared at him. "Wasting time? Why don't you just get it over with and—"

"Potter, I swear—if you tell him to kill us one more time I am going to beat the shit out of you—"

"WHY NOT?" he screamed, a sort of pained desperation flickering in his eyes for a moment. "It's what he's _good_ at! Once he's done with us, he can get back to torturing and killing Muggles—how does it feel to kill your own kind, your _majesty_?"

Draco gaped at him. Snape—a half-blood? His father had always spoken so highly of him… Then again, Snape wasn't exactly an old wizarding surname. "Are you?" he asked, before he could stop himself.

"Shut up, Potter," growled Snape, ignoring him and thrusting the tip of the wand closer to Potter's throat. Majesty? It was hard to imagine Snape as King of anything…well—perhaps somewhere extremely greasy…

"He is," said Potter in a satisfied tone, his eyes glittering malevolently. "So is Voldemort, for that matter." (Draco and Snape both flinched as though physically struck.) He turned back towards Snape. "Did you two bond over that? He told me once—'very disappointing fathers.' Talk about how much you hate your fathers while killing off people and small, furry animals?"

"Perhaps you could have hated your father as well, Potter, if he had lived past your first birthday. No doubt he would have proven to be a disappointment."

Potter smirked. "Oh, I do know him." (Draco made a mental note—_definitely_ insane.) "Not as well as I'd like—something else I can thank you for, I suppose." Potter was smiling, but it was a pained sort of almost hysterical grimace. There was a venom in his voice that Draco had never heard before—and pissing Potter off had been his pastime for the past six years. He seemed to have a special hate and rage hidden away somewhere that Draco could never reach—not that he hadn't tried of course. "Oddly enough, nothing about him inspired me to become a cold, bitter, ugly, murderous bastard—"

Snape was looking progressively more and more furious. Draco had to give Potter credit—at least it was distracting him somewhat. Draco marveled silently at how Potter seems to have the upper hand in the conversation, whereas the mere mention of Potter's father seems unfailingly reduce Snape to an indignant thirteen year old. He was stalling. Where was that fucking elf with their wands? He pondered whether or not he should kick it when it got back in retribution for its tardiness. However, he thought of the indignant look on Granger's face and decided against it. Goddammit—what was Granger doing in his head again?

"He was a weak, Muggle fool," snarled Snape. "And I am not—" He stopped, his mouth becoming a very thin white line on his sallow face.

"Oh, _do_ say it," said Potter, his face twisting into a wicked, spiteful grin.

Something shuffled in the corner of Draco's vision, tentative, shuffling, and frightened. Merlin. The little beast was always frightened. His father hadn't beaten the elves that often. Actually—he usually relied on them punishing themselves—he had a talent for that sort of thing.

Draco inched ever so slightly sideways. The elf was cowering behind the wall they had squatted behind moments before. He just needed to get his wand…

Snape's eyes, still clouded with fury, flickered towards him. "Mr. Malfoy—" he said sharply, tilting his wand ever so slightly towards Draco. "I don't recall giving you permission to—"

_WHAM_.

Draco gaped. Snape staggered backward, a thin trickle of blood trickling down his pallid face. Potter withdrew his balled fist, not bothering to wipe the blood off of it. He looked fleetingly triumphant, though there was not a trace of happiness in his face.

Snape made a slashing motion in the air, and Potter flew backwards, slamming into the wall with a loud crack. Draco dove for his wand. The terrified house elf let out a squeak of dismay and dropped the wands, disappearing with a faint pop. Potter struggled to his feet, back braced against the wall. Draco snatched up both wands and flung one to Potter, who caught it rather effortlessly. Potter attempted to throw a curse at Snape, but he blocked it almost lazily.

Having his wand back made Draco feel immediately better—although he was far from relieved. The glint of light from the fine grained surface of his wand was interrupted. Fingerprints. It desperately needed polishing. Usually he polished it once a week—he loved the way it gleamed in the light, its thin wooden surface pale and smooth. Twelve inches. Hawthorne and dragon heartstring. Inflexible.

They pointed their wands towards Snape, who glared at them, eventually opting to turn his wand on Potter. _Figures_, he thought, irritated for no reason at all. _Fine. Idiot_.

"Two against one, Potter?" hissed Snape, his eyes narrowing. "Those were your father's favorite odds as well."

"Oh, for Merlin's sake," cried Draco, exasperated and quite thoroughly miserable. He was cold, filthy, in desperate need of a shower and a non-wrinkled set of clothes, and annoyed. "Would you give up with 'his father' already? 'Potter's father' this, and 'Potter's father' that! Bloody hell. He's DEAD! He's been dead for 16 years! It's time to _move_ _on_."

They both stared at him. Snape blinked, as though no one had ever dared saying something like that to him before. Potter looked indignant. Draco really couldn't care less.

Potter turned back to Snape. "You want me to drink a vat of poison and snap my wand in half first?" he asked coldly. Draco could see a response fighting to burst from Snape's lips. Or at least—his mouth twitched slightly. "Because those are the odds _you_ seem to favor."

Snape opened his mouth to respond. Draco had had quite enough. Snape was working for the Dark Lord. Potter was fighting the Dark Lord. It just so happened, that at the moment, the Dark Lord was not on Draco's list of favorite people, having murdered his blood-kin and disgraced his family name. Not that he believed it would make a difference in the end—but of course, Draco firmly believed that one should live for the moment.

"_Corripio claudo_!" he yelled, jabbing his wand in several complicated patterns, still aiming at Snape. The bars of the ajar cell door next to him shivered, flowing like mercury, and warped, reaching out in one liquid motion to seize Snape and throw him bodily into the cage. Snape bellowed in surprise. The cell bars immediately reformed, snapping shut with a satisfying clink. Snape looked livid.

Potter disarmed him, catching his wand and twirling it in satisfaction before hurling it across the dungeons like an errant Quaffle. It clattered out of sight in a distant corner.

"Have a nice night," said Potter in a sort of deranged, yet cheerful voice, "—_sir_." Draco was impressed at Potter's ability to articulate the last word with such a rebellious disdain—he may as well have said, 'Worthless heap of dragon dung.'

"Porta Aevum."

Draco had half turned to leave, but he froze.

Potter looked suspiciously at Snape, as if he thought this was some thus far undiscovered curse. "What?" he asked, confused, but suspicious.

"Bella was the one who sealed the oaths, but—" Snape added quietly. Draco had gone rigid, his face pale—but he shook it off. "If you desire, you may—"

He turned around and walked away, not looking at Snape. Potter hurried after him. Bellatrix. Sealed the oaths. That was his duty. No—that was his father's. Bastard. Damn him. Damn all of them.

Draco felt like screaming. This was all his own fault. He couldn't protect her…

"Malfoy," said Potter, staring in confusion at the blank expression on Draco's pale face. "What the hell—"

"It doesn't matter," he said dully, not slowing his pace. "_Aperforis_." A section of stone wall folded onto itself, sliding aside to reveal a passage out of the dungeons—a long stone staircase leading outside. "Don't concern yourself." A cool breeze greeted them as they ascended. It was just before dawn. The stars had faded, and tendrils of pastel colored clouds were tugging at the edges of the darkness.

"I think my life has taken a significant turn for the worse," muttered Draco.

"That's interesting," said Potter peevishly. He was stomping along as though on a personal vendetta to crush every offensive blade of grass. They walked across the grounds, nearing the edge of the forest. "I always thought that once you've hit 'scum of the earth' there's really nowhere left to go but up."

Draco rolled his eyes. The sight of Snape seemed to have reminded Potter how much he disliked Draco, who had been nothing but helpful so far, albeit him being disagreeable, rude, sarcastic, and stubborn for the past few weeks. Draco would not have forgotten something that easily. Honestly. The boy had the memory span of a goldfish.

"Malfoy—" Potter looking agitated. "What is Porta Aevum?"

"Nothing." Draco clenched his hands. "None of your damn business." Potter grabbed the front of his dress robes, and pulled him around. Ah well. They were wrinkled beyond redemption anyway.

"Anything passing between _you_ and that bastard is most definitely my business, Malfoy," he growled.

"You don't trust me, Potter?" snapped Draco sarcastically. "Gosh, I'm hurt." Potter narrowed his eyes. Draco felt a wave of cold pass over him. He inhaled sharply, but the warmth of the summer air had disappeared, and the icy air he was breathing seemed to freeze him from the inside out.

"Potter—" Draco's teeth were chattering.

"Shut up."

Potter had released him; he was looking around in alarm—his wand drawn. The light of dawn seemed to fade, and darkness descended upon them like a heavy, velvet curtain.

"_STOP! STOP! STOP!" screamed his mother, her eyes wide, sparkling with tears. _

Draco clenched his hands, but he couldn't stop them from shaking. Potter looked pale but determined.

_The Dark Lord drew his wand back, and Draco rose shakily to his feet, his arm burning as though knifes had been driven through it. The Dark Lord leaned in, close to his ear. "If you fail, young Malfoy," he hissed, without a touch of amusement in his voice, "I will kill both of them. There is _nowhere_ you can hide from me."_

"—entors—them. Malfoy—ow to—atronus?" Potter was talking to him, but he could barely hear it over the desperate wails of his mother screaming in his ears.

_Her eyes were open. He touched her cheek with a trembling hand. Blood poured down his arm. Her face was cold. _

"What?" His voice was a mere whisper.

"_Stop crying," growled his father. "You are disgracing yourself and your family. You must learn to do these things. You told me you thought yourself ready. Well?" _

_Draco raised his wand again, hiccupping, his eyes blurred, aiming for the creature on the ground. "C—cr—_crucio—_"_

It was screaming. They were all screaming, in his head. Potter was screaming something else, but he couldn't hear it. Something silver was tearing through the darkness. Warmth slowly returned to his lungs. Potter's green eyes swam back into his field of vision. Draco realized that he had fallen to his knees. He struggled shakily back onto his feet, disgusted with himself, refusing Potter's offer help him stand up.

"Do you feel up to apparating, Malfoy?" Potter asked. His voice sounded distant in his ringing ears. "We can go to Diagon Alley and find a Floo Portal…"

"Yes," lied Draco hostilely. Potter looked dubious, but shrugged.

"Fine." They both disappeared with a pair of loud cracks.

000

"Oh, no—" said Ron, throwing his hands out defensively. "You tell him."

"You tell him," countered Hermione obstinately. "I always have to tell him everything."

"That's because you figure it out first," pointed out Ron. "Congratulations. You should be proud. You can tell him."

"It's your turn, isn't it?" She pointed at him accusingly.

"No, it's not. We don't take turns. Since when have we ever taken turns?"

"That's what you say when it's your turn to tell him something!" She pushed the Horcrux into his hands. "You tell him."

"No, you tell him!" he retorted Ron stubbornly. "It's—" The fire flared suddenly, and two figures tumbled forth onto the carpet from its roaring depths. Harry stood up, his glasses soot covered and hopeless askew.

"Hullo," he said cheerfully.

"Harry!" cried Hermione. "Oh thank goodness." She wrapped him a fierce hug.

"Are you two alright?" he asked them. She and Ron nodded. Malfoy coughed loudly, looking rather ragged. He picked himself up off the floor and stared at them, then huffily flung himself onto the couch, looking sullen.

"We're fine, mate," said Ron reassuringly. "What about you?"

Harry shrugged. "We got locked in the dungeons, then we got out—then Snape showed up—" Ron swore loudly. "then we ran into a bunch of dementors—then we escaped—and came here."

"Snape?" said Hermione, in a small voice. "Did you—I mean—is he—"

"He's alive," said Harry, his expression darkening. "Malfoy locked him in one of the cells." His tone actually sounded approving.

"Potter punched him across the face," piped up Malfoy, his voice flat.

"Did you?" said Hermione, in surprise.

"Yes," said Harry, not looking remotely abashed.

"Wicked!" said Ron, grinning broadly. Harry grinned as well.

"Well—it was all worth it, wasn't it?" said Harry in a satisfied tone. Ron and Hermione exchanged glances.

"Er—" said Ron. "Well—see—about that, mate—"

"It's—" Hermione pulled the golden cup in his hands. "I ran a check on it, and I don't think…it's—well—it's—"

Harry stared at the cup in his hands. His face was blank, but his eye was twitching ever so slightly. Hermione had seen that look on his face more than once. The expression which stated very clearly—'What do you mean my Nimbus has been reduced to splinters by the Whomping Willow?' or 'What do you mean Dumbledore didn't let you write letters to me while I was locked up all alone during the summer?' or 'What do you mean I have to have extra lessons with Snape?'

"It's what?" asked Harry, in a decidedly calm voice.

"It's not a Horcrux," said Hermione a small voice.

"Oh," said Harry, gripping the cup very tightly in his hands. His jaw was clenched tightly shut. "What is it then?" His eyes was twitching rather impressively now.

"Something transfigured…" She bit her lip. "I—I imagine they just wanted to get your attention…" She waved her wand, and the cup warped, reforming itself to its original state, a rolled up piece of parchment, covered in cramped, black writing. Harry unfurled it slowly.

_Potter,_

_Tomorrow. 8'oclock. Spinners End. I'd tell you to come alone, but it would be futile wouldn't it?_

_-S.S._

Harry crumbled the letter in his fist, not saying a word.

"Harry," said Hermione tentatively. "I'm really sorry, but—"

"No," said Harry, through gritted teeth, not looking at either of them. "It's fine." The letter burst into flames in his hand.

"Erm—" said Ron, but thought better of it. The ashes of the letter sifted through Harry's hand and floated to the floor. "Nevermind…" Hermione jumped as a glass vase on the mantle place exploded.

"Excuse me for a moment," said Harry evenly, striding out of the room and disappearing. Ron and Hermione looked at each other.

"_AAARG_!" screamed a voice from the other room. "_FUCK_!"

_CRASH_.

_BANG_.

There were a few moments of silence.

Hermoine looked at Malfoy, who was still on the couch, trying vainly to fix his hair in the reflection from the glass cabinets. She didn't know what he was bothered about. He still managed to look absolutely gorgeous no matter how filthy or disheveled his clothes were, the bastard. Then again, he always was sure to have immaculate hair and neat, expensive clothes. Hmph. Narcissistic prat.

"There are showers upstairs, Malfoy," sighed Hermione. Malfoy looked up at her for a moment, as if formulating a retort, but was silent.

"Thanks," said shortly. He fled the room, his need to be clean and neat apparently outweighing his need to be a git.

Harry returned to the room, looking a bit less angry, but no less stressed. He sank down onto the couch. Ron and Hermione sat down on either side of him. Dumbledore was right. He shouldn't be alone in his. Ron clapped his shoulder reassuringly, and Hermione squeezed his hand. He smiled tiredly at them. They sat quietly for a few moments.

"Where's Malfoy?" asked Harry finally.

"He went to get cleaned off," said Hermione.

"Merlin, he's such a fucking _girl_," grumbled Ron. Harry sniggered.

"Oh," said Harry suddenly. "Hermione—have you ever heard of—er—what was it—'Portus Av—' something, dammit—'Porta Avem'?"

"No…" Hermione frowned, racking her brain.

"'Porta Aevum'?" said Ron. Harry nodded.

"Yeah! What is it? Snape said something to Malfoy about sealing oaths or something—"

"Porta Aevum—'The Gates of Heaven,'" translated Ron. "It's the oldest wizarding cemetery in Britain, very exclusive—ancient family plots only. 'Sealing the oaths' is an outdated funeral rite. I'm not exactly sure what it does, something about the blood-kin remaining behind and honoring the memory of the departed…"

"Oh…" said Harry. "Has someone he knows…"

"His mother…" said Hermione quietly. "Voldemort killed her the night he ran away." Harry looked shocked.

"He didn't say anything," said Ron, frowning. "How did you know—?"

""I saw it in his memories," said Hermione, suddenly defensive, though she wasn't sure why, "when we were looking for the diary…"

"Why didn't you say anything?" asked Ron, looking at her with a face full of concern.

"It's really not my place, Ron," she said, shaking her head. "It's not the sort of thing you go blabbing all over the place. I mean—would you have said anything, if you were him?"

Harry looked away. "No," he answered softly. "I don't suppose I would have either."

000

**AN:** I assigned Malfoy a wand, just for fun. It fits with the whole HPLexicon-birthday wand assignment thing. Here's what a random website had to say about hawthorne wood:

"_Its gender type is Masculine. Its planet ruler is Mars. Its associated element is Fire. It is used to attract the powers needed for: Health, Fertility, Chastity, Weddings, Protection and Death. Astrologically hawthorn people are stubborn but loving people and tend to be very beautiful in youth. They bring out the worst in their friends but not in a bad way, more as a way of helping them to root out bad habits and attitudes. They are supportive and protective of all they consider to be family. They can be tough to work with and have a single-minded attitude. They attend only to the business at hand, which makes them very shrewd business people. They are very dependable and stable, and won't go back on their words_."

I think that's Malfoy, more or less.

**PS:** Finals! Aah! DOOM! Enjoy this extra large economy chapter. Early Christmas present I suppose.

**PPS:** Lucius and Narcissa's relationship is something I've never been really sure of. I really can't see he sticking around if he was physically abusing her or Draco—but I imagine most of their scars run a little deeper than that…Lucius is still a crazy bastard…

**Next Chapter:** In which chocolate is consumed, the heroes pay a visit to Spinner's End, Snape is a jerk, Harry sticks it to the Ministry, and Draco and Hermione discuss…stuff...


	18. White Flags

_There can be no high civility without a deep morality, though it may not always call itself by that name._ – Ralph Waldo Emerson

Draco gave the hub of the shower another tap, and the torrent of water above him slowed to a faint drip, echoing hollowly along the tile. He wrapped a large deep blue towel around his midsection and walked over to the mirror, clearing away the steamy film clinging to it with a savage swipe of his hand. He inhaled a cloud of warm fog and ran a hand through his damp hair.

He stared critically at his reflection, cocking his head slightly. Being on the run…not the best thing for his complexion…Merlin—were those circles under his eyes! _Arrg_… Unable to bear the thought any longer, he turned away from the mirror huffily. He picked up his wand from the bathroom counter and conjured some underclothes. Silk…not bad…but he felt cheap—he infinitely preferred store-bought clothes…conjuring his own made him feel tacky. And _poor_. God, what if he turned into Weasley? Then again, Granger did seem to prefer the company of the financially deficient bastard… Maybe he could sneak out and buy some clothes when Potter and Granger weren't looking…

He pushed open the door and stepped out into one of the bedrooms, inhaling sharply as the cool air broke upon his damp skin. Then he jumped again, though it was quite unrelated to the air temperature.

Granger was sitting on the bed.

"Merlin and Agrippa, woman—what the hell are you doing in here?" he choked, trying to regain his composure.

"I wanted to talk to you," she said evenly, looking extremely unperturbed.

"Well, could you wait—until I was dressed, perhaps?" he said, annoyed.

"I brought you some clothes," she said, gesturing to the garments lying on the bed next to her. "You got blood on the other ones and I threw them away. Anyway—I wanted to talk to you without Harry and Ron around; all of you tend to get a little on edge in each other's company."

"Of the three of you, you are the only one who has slapped me across the face—so I really don't see how that makes you impartial…" he pointed out. Then he grinned. "You wanted to see me half dressed, then?" He held his arms out, showing off, what was in his opinion, an incredibly manly and ever-so-desirable physique. It never failed to make Hogwarts girls swoon.

"Oh, get _over_ yourself," she said exasperatedly, rolling her eyes. Damn her! Why didn't she swoon? Everyone swooned at the sight of his bare chest! She did however, blush slightly and look away. Ha. Never fails. "And put on some clothes so we can talk like…civilized people."

Draco critically surveyed the clothes. "I can't wear that," he said, rather horror stricken.

"Why not?" she demanded.

"Merlin's ghost—black and BROWN? I didn't know you hated me that much Granger—ugh—it's horrid—I can't put those on together—it's a travesty—"

"Oh, for goodness sake!" She threw up her hands. "Fine. Wear something else. I don't care at all." Draco charmed the shirt, changing the color. To black, of course. The charm ought to last long enough for him to find new clothes. She looked away discreetly while he dressed.

"OK," he said.

"Here. Harry said you ran into some Dementors on the way back here." She tossed him a bar of Honeydukes chocolate.

"Where did you get this?" he inquired, turning it over in his hands as if checking for some sign of tampering.

"From Lupin's old room…it was stashed in a drawer," she shrugged. "Honestly, the way he goes through the stuff…I think that man would be as big as Slughorn by now if not for the lycanthropy…" Draco regarded the chocolate with a fresh wave of suspicion. "Oh, just eat it Malfoy—I haven't _poisoned_ the chocolate!"

"Yes—but—half-breed…what if it's infested with fleas?" he inquired in a whiney voice. She glared at him. "Mmm…" Somewhat cowed, he peeled back the wrapper and bit off a chunk of chocolate. "Delicious, delicious chocolate…" The warmth that the shower had failed to return to him crept back slowly into his veins.

"So…" he said slowly, sitting down on the bed next to her. "What exactly did you want to talk about?"

"You kissed me," she said bluntly.

He raised an eyebrow. "I suppose I did. But I've kissed a lot of girls," he pointed out truthfully. "Want to know how you stack up? Or—" He smirked. "Hoping for another go?" He leaned closer to her. "They say _third_ time's the charm."

She scooted backwards slightly, whipping out her wand and leveling it at his face. "Third time—is going to be a _curse_ if you don't watch yourself, Malfoy." He moved away from her, his expression neutral. He certainly didn't want her to think he was disappointed about not being able to touch her disgusting, Muggle-born, know-it-all self. Especially when he wasn't entirely sure if he was disappointed or not himself.

She dropped her wand and turned away, staring at the ground and sighing. "I wanted to apologize."

"For what?" he said, bewildered. "For the clothes? They were awful—but it's really not your fault you have no taste—I mean—look at the company you keep—"

"That's not what I was talking about," she said, clenching her jaw for a moment before regaining her composure. "It's about the kiss. Kiss_es_, actually—plural. I'm very sorry."

"Oh, come now, Granger," he said honestly. "You weren't that bad at all."

She looked as if she was struggling not to roll her eyes. "I shouldn't have done that—it was wrong of me…"

"If I recall," said Draco, swallowing another lump of chocolate before speaking. "_I_ was the one kissing _you_, thank you very much." Some masculine part of his brain was indeed, screaming at him to take credit for his 'conquests.' Whatever that meant.

"And I let you," she said, looking sorrowful again. "You're very upset right now. With—your mother's death—" Draco nearly bit his tongue on the next piece of chocolate. "—and everything happening so fast—" She sighed. "You were upset. And not thinking straight. And just because I happened to be there—I don't want to make you more confused…"

Well, she wasn't doing a good job of it. Draco was definitely more confused now. And a little bit angry. What? He _wasn't_ attractive? He was in fact, very attractive—it was one of the key elements of his existence.

"So what?" he blurted out. "You think I'm all upset and so I've run off kissing whoever comes along because I'm a confused, troubled youth? Oh, please."

"Basically," she said. He opened his mouth to object. "Look—back in the cave you were almost hysterical—"

"Malfoys do _not_ get hysterical," he protested indignantly.

"You told me you felt horrible—that you wanted to hate me and you couldn't—and you were trying to get rid of the Dark Mark by _scratching_ it off—which was not at all a pleasant sight—you were _crying_ for Merlin's sakes…"

"Well, I was obviously hysterical," murmured Draco, paling. His stomach dropped slightly…he only had vague recollections of the events she was talking about…he did not like that…she clearly was holding _some_ kind of advantage over him…knowing things about him…how _awful_…

"So what do you want?" he demanded finally. "Blackmail? Is that what this is about?"

She looked taken aback. "Why on earth would I want to blackmail you, you loon?" He pondered this for a moment. It hadn't really occurred to him that knowing deeply personal, embarrassing information about someone else could serve any purpose other than extortion of some kind…

"I don't know…what do you want?"

"I wanted to apologize," she said diplomatically. "To start anew. Things have changed—you've helped us and we've helped you—maybe we could start over—and forget what a nasty little berk you are and get along like civilized people."

"Pity?" he said coldly. "You feel sorry for me, is that it? 'Oh poor, Malfoy—he's all alone and his Mummy's gone, whatever will he do? Maybe if I pity his poor pathetic soul, I can redeem him from his nasty, nasty ways—' "

"Malfoy—"

"What— is it the S. P. W. D. M.—Society for the Promotion of the Welfare of Draco Malfoy, then? Going to make badges? I'm not a bloody house elf or a charity case for you to—"

"Stop that," she said sharply. "I'm not offering pity, and I'm fairly sure that no matter what I do you'll still be as nasty as ever." She drew herself up to full height—unafraid, as always, considering herself his equal, despite her blood, that was what had always annoyed him about her— "What I'm offering you, Malfoy, is friendship." She held out her hand. "Nothing more, nothing less."

He stared at her. Friendship? Honestly. Was she doing all in her power to make him _puke_? She stared back at him evenly, her face placid, a half smile on her face. He looked appraisingly at her hand.

"Verbal contract, then?" He crossed his arms. "Well I think I'd like to know exactly what such a contract entails before mixing myself up in one. We Malfoys are shrewd business people after all. How do you think we got so rich?"

Granger dropped her hand slightly. "If I had to guess—I'd say centuries worth of burning and pillaging Muggle villages."

"Good guess," he congratulated her. "Nasty bunch, you know."

"You don't really want to be like them."

He glared at her. "How do you know?" he demanded accusingly. "My family has a proud heritage stretching back across a millennia—"

"And you were so _proud_, weren't you?" Her hand was back down at her side now, and she stood slowly, staring at him with flashing eyes. "Strutting about the school. But you tried it yourself—you finally put your money where your big _mouth_ is and you came up short changed—you couldn't _walk_ the _walk_...you're all talk…"

"You think you could mix a few more metaphors into that little tirade, Granger? I thought you liked to _read_," he said lazily, though he squirmed internally under her piercing gaze. "Well? I _thought_ we were reviewing the terms of our contract, not discussing my family history."

"Friendship," she clarified in that scholarly, knowing tone she always used in class when she knew an answer. In other words—all the time. It was rather annoying. "Be nice to each other. Share things—memories, problems, feelings..."

He quirked an eyebrow at her. "You are _kidding_—right?" he said disbelievingly, curling his lip in disgust.

"Oh fine," she conceded exasperatedly. "We'll try to get along without resorting to physical violence. How's that? And who knows—maybe—someday—we'll actually be able to talk without the first thing coming out of your mouth being some kind of verbal abuse."

"Fine," he heard himself say. WHAT? DID HE JUST SAY THAT OUT LOUD? "I'll give you _civility_, then, Granger, nothing more." He took her hand and shook it. "Just as long as you don't try to _dress_ me again."

"Wouldn't dream of it," she replied, smiling serenely. She flicked her wand. Something floated over from the dresser and dropped in Draco's lap. He looked at it. It was a book.

" '_To Kill a Mockingbird_'?" He read, cocking his head. "What the hell is this? Muggle rubbish?"

"It's not rubbish—it's a book."

"And?"

"You should read it."

"Why should I read it?" he demanded, which he thought was a rather excellent question.

"You said—and I quote—'If we get out of this, I'll read a goddamn book every _day_.' To which, I replied—that I would hold you to that."

"Nngh…" was all he could manage.

"If you choose not to, I understand, but—" She went to grab for the book, but he snatched it away.

"I said I would do it, and I'll do it." His eyes flashed. "I do not go back on my word. Ever."

"OK," she said, now smiling. Her brown eyes twinkled. Ugh. Twinkling eyes. Such an irritating quality. "If you can't finish it in one day, I understand…you don't read that often…"

"I never said that!" he snapped.

"Fine," she said. "Maybe you can finish it in one day."

"Yeah. Maybe I will."

"Fine."

"Great."

She stood up and walked out of the room without another word. Draco cracked open the book. Where the hell was "Maycomb"?

000

Hermione walked down the hall, feeling considerably less guilty. Poor Malfoy. Even though he was still an ass…maybe she would make those badges just to spite him…ha! She slipped into her room, which was farther down the hall, and pulled a scrap of dress robe out of her pocket. She had torn it off the cuff when she noticed the blood stains on it. She held it up to the light and stared at it, frowning slightly. Malfoy and his _pure_ blood. It didn't look very exciting to her—just like regular blood. Only now it was dark and rather crusty. She wrinkled her nose, and stuffed it into her bag and out of sight. Definitely might have its…uses…some day.

She continued to the stairs, hopping down off the last stair and stepping into the living room. Harry and Ron were engaged in a game of—big surprise—chess.

Ron was winning.

Hermione watched in silence for a few minutes, tilting her head and wincing silently as Harry fell right into one of Ron's traps. She had learned through experience that people did not appreciate her advice while they were trying to play their own game, however abysmally they might be failing on their own.

She whirled around as she heard a faint click on the window. A honey colored owl was fluttering madly against the glass. Hermione dashed over and pushed it open. The owl hurtled in and made a few swoops around the room before doing an impressive aerial dive towards Harry's face, nearly knocking him out of his chair.

The letter the owl was carrying had a rather official looking seal on it. Hermione tilted her head to get a better look. It was from the Ministry of Magic. Harry tore it open and scanned it quickly. Then he rolled his eyes, tossed the letter onto the chessboard, and summoned a quill and parchment from the desk across the room.

"Harry, what is that?" Hermione strode over to the chess board and picked up the letter without asking further permission. "Is it from the Ministry?" She unfolded the letter and began to read.

_Dear Mr. Potter,_

_I hope this letter finds you well. I want to say again how very sorry we are for your loss—we all know how very close you were to Albus Dumbledore. And, as we both well know, if there was anything that Dumbledore valued—it was cooperation. So, we here at the Ministry sincerely hope that you will give our offer another thought. With the dramatic increase in Death Eater related violence as of late, your support could only aid in the fight against You-Know-Who. _

_Oh—and Mafalda Hopkirk informed me that she has reason to suspect you broke the Restriction on Underage Wizardry several times while at your Aunt and Uncle's house. Just a reminder that you will be expelled if found guilty!_

_Please get back to us as soon as possible. Remember—your support means a great deal to our cause._

_Sincerely,_

_Rufus Scrimgeour_

_Minister of Magic_

Hermione gasped at the letter. "Honestly Harry—" she said. "How many of these have you gotten?"

"Six," replied Harry cheerily. He was bent over a piece of parchment, scribbling something that was probably a reply. After a few moments, he leaned back and appraised his work, looking satisfied. Hermione set the Minister's Letter on the chess board in front of Ron and tipped her head so she could read Harry's reply.

_Dear Minister,_

_Sod you, sod the Ministry. I'm not going back to school anyway, so you can quit threatening to expel me. You know very well that I'm not doing magic just to amuse myself, and it won't matter in a few days anyway. I'm going to keep doing what Dumbledore wanted me to do, so sorry to be rude, but sod off. _

_Sincerely, Harry J. Potter_

_PS: Released Stan Shunpike yet?_

Hermione was so mortified it took her a moment to form words.

"_Harry_!" she said finally, her hands immediately flying to her hips.

"What?" asked Harry, looking bewildered. She opened her mouth to respond, but her eyes fell to Ron, who had the Minister's letter crunched in his fist, and was staring at it, eyes practically bulging out of their sockets.

"Ron, what _are_ you doing?" she inquired, turning her Hands-On-The-Hips! Disciplinary stance towards him.

"Trying to light this letter on fire," he said, exhaling as if he had been holding his breath while her concentrated on the letter.

"Without your _wand_?" said Hermione. _Really_ now.

"Harry can do it," protested Ron.

"Harry can only do it when he's really angry," she snapped back.

"I can be angry!" said Ron defiantly.

"Yes, but you don't have _quite_ the same quality of boundless rage," said Hermione, gesturing with her hand.

"I _do_ have boundless quantities of rage," Harry agreed, nodding.

"Ah, well," sighed Ron. He tossed the letter into the fireplace, where it burst into flames, and smiled cheerfully. Hermione turned around to see Harry stand up, holding his hand out towards the owl still perched on the windowsill.

"Oh, _no_, Harry," said Hermione, burying her face in her hands. "That letter is _awful_, you can't possibly send it —"

"What did you say, Hermione?" inquired Harry innocently, turning around from his spot at the window. Hermione raised her head to see the owl soar off into the distance, Harry's letter fluttering at its leg.

"Never mind," she moaned, burying her head again. Harry trotted over and sat back down across from Ron, to continue their game. They both looked immensely pleased with themselves. Hermione flopped down on the couch near to them and picked up a book.

"Checkmate," said Ron, smirking.

"_Dammit_," said Harry, frowning. "I thought I had you that time."

"No one takes down the master," said Ron, grinning. He leaned back and stretched lazily, raising his arms above his head. Hermione had her neck craned over a book, though she was mucking through it rather slowly—in the past fifteen minutes she had only read about 40 pages. She was ruing…over that stupid letter. What was Harry thinking!

Her eyes flicked towards Ron's reclining form, though she didn't lift her head. He had gotten so…tall—over the summer. He had a few inches on Harry, and at least half a foot on Malfoy, and well—he towered over her, in her personal opinion. His shirt pulled in just the right places as he stretched, his blue eyes sparkling above his bright smile…

'Oh, stop it,' she scolded herself, feeling her face go hot. Ron didn't seem like he's going to figure it anytime soon. Why she should she torture herself like this? It was ridiculous. Then again—she had been _torturing_ herself like this for the past six years. Why stop now? Krum was boring, McLaggen was a pig, Malfoy was just temporary insanity (he was such a bastard…most of the time, who would want to be caught up in something like that? The very thought terrified her more than she liked), Harry was like a brother to her (and Ginny a sister, so that didn't help much) and then…there was Ron. Her best friend. How long did she have to wait around for him? How long, darn it? She had only gone out with McLaggen, and even Krum to some extent—to make him jealous. And he was jealous. Wildly jealous. _Hysterically_ jealous! But that's _all_ he was. _Jealous_! HE JUST NEVER ACTED ON IT! He was so thick! It was so frustrating! She scowled.

"Hermione's thinking about the letter you sent to the Minister, Harry," Ron informed him candidly. Hermione's head snapped up, to see Ron gazing at her, smiling. "Hermione, don't rue over it all day, it's not going to matter at all. Scrimgeour is just a git."

"Yes, thank you Ron, I realize that," she said haughtily. "And I have _not_ been ruing over it." That was only a partial lie, after all.

Ron looked at the ceiling. "Did Malfoy drown in the shower or something?"

"Don't get my hopes up," sighed Harry, his head resting on one of his hands.

"No, he's upstairs reading," said Hermione truthfully.

"Reading what?" said Ron. " '_How to Repay the Kindness of Others with Betrayal?_' or maybe my personal favorite—'_Really Evil Plans and the Really Evil Wizards Who Came Up with Them_'—"

" '_Perfect Hair Management for the Bigoted Girl_—I mean—_Git_," chimed in Harry, an identical and quite diabolical grin on his face.

Hermione had to fight to repress a grin. "Well, he's not _here_ is he? I should think you'd both be happy about that."

Both boys shrugged. Hermione jumped slightly as the clock chimed. The previous owner of the house had set the clock to emit an eerie wailing noise as it sounded every hour, but Mrs. Weasley had reengineered it to chime a tune Hermione could now identify as 'A Cauldron Full of Hot, Strong Love.' To be perfectly honest, she might have preferred the screeching. She looked up at the clock face. It was eight o'clock.

"One more day," said Harry quietly.

"Until we walk into a trap," piped up Ron, crossing his arms sullenly.

"We don't know it's a trap," pointed out Hermione fairly.

"Yes we do," Ron retorted stubbornly. "It said it right there in the note—'Dear Harry, Come here so I can kill you, Love Slimeball. PS: In case you haven't figured it out yet, this is a trap.'"

"We don't have to go, you know," said Hermione tentatively, looking at Harry.

"Oh, no." Harry's eyes glittered darkly in the firelight. "I _want_ to."

"To be honest—I'd like another crack at him, too," said Ron, nodding.

Hermione looked between the two boys—(well—they were really more like men now), and frowned. "I agree with Ron," she said quietly.

"You want another crack at Snape?" asked Ron brightly, looking impressed.

"No—I mean—not that I don't—" She shook her head. "I agree that it's a trap."

"Ahh," said Harry, leaning back in his chair.

"Yeah—" agreed Ron. "He could be waiting with all his nasty friends to ambush us or something—"

"He doesn't have any friends," Harry stated bluntly.

"True," said Hermione, setting her book down next to her and folding her hands in her lap. "But he has _allies_. Or at least he used to. Maybe…we should call for—er—'backup'—" she suggested, unable to come up with a word that did not make her feel like she was caught up in a Muggle police drama.

"He's a horrible nasty git," Ron informed them, as if they didn't already know. "Speaking of horrible nasty gits—are we dragging Malfoy along?" he inquired.

Harry tilted his head slightly, as he was prone to do when pondering something. "I don't know. I don't want to bring the cup along to Snape's though, and I don't exactly want to leave him alone here with it…we could hide it, I suppose."

"He'd find it," said Hermione matter of factly. "Besides, he might be useful. We could use more wands on our side…"

"But if we bring him he might team up with Snape and try to kill us—two against three aren't great odds compared to three or four against one—"

"He won't," said Hermione. "Why would he ally with Snape? Snape, as far as we know, is allied with Voldemort—" Harry exhaled sharply, making an angry hissing noise. "—and Voldemort was trying to kill him last time we checked. It's just not smart. He's a Malfoy. He's allied with you, Harry, because right now you're the one with power. Power offers protection. I don't know how far he'll go—but he's not going to betray you to Snape. Not right now."

Harry blushed slightly as she gave him her appraisal. He was always so tentative about any sort of praise. But it was true! He had power—rather a lot of it—whether he knew it or not. He didn't boast about it like say—Malfoy, for one? But he had a quiet intensity that was staggering if one paid the right attention to it.

Ron looked dubious. "I don't know…"

"It's just not smart," Hermione countered, shaking her head. "He may be a lot of things—bigoted, pigheaded, rude, vindictive, petty, irritating—but he isn't stupid."

"Why thank you, Granger," drawled a cold voice from the corner of the room. Malfoy was leaning casually against the doorframe of the living room where they were sitting, smirking slightly. "From that staggeringly flattering portrayal, I can't only assume you were talking about me."

"Why yes," said Harry, politely returning his grin. "We were discussing whether or not we should kill you."

"Actually—we were past that," said Ron solemnly. "We were discussing where we should dump the body."

Malfoy seemed slightly tensed by their threats, but he hid it rather well, and plopped down onto a chair near Ron. Hermione couldn't exactly blame him for being nervous. After all—the verdict was still sort of out on whether or not the three of them would end up killing each other. "There's a good spot on the North Bank of the Thames," he informed them, casually examining his nails. He turned to Ron, who looked rather stricken, and gave him a cat-like smile. "Not that _I_ would know anything about it."

"Tomorrow, Malfoy, we're going to see Snape at—" began Harry.

"Spinner's End," finished Malfoy. He rested his chin on a curled fist and quirked his head. "Gosh—the fun never stops with you three, does it?"

"Nope," said Harry, standing up, and moving towards the fireplace. "And congratulations, you're coming along."

"Oh, goody," replied Malfoy darkly. "I'll just cancel all my plans and pencil in 'walk blindly into trap, following morons.'"

_See_? Even _Malfoy_ thought it might possibly probably most likely be a trap. Hermione looked at Harry.

"Harry, mate, what are you doing?" Ron stood up as well.

"Hermione is right," said Harry, taking the vase of Floo powder off from the mantle. "We should have…backup."

"You mean the Order?"

"Not all of them, things will get too complicated," said Harry, shaking his head, "We just need a few more wands—someone trustworthy who won't ask too many questions." He took the vase of Floo Powder off the mantle and gathered a handful of fine grey dust in his fist. He called out an address, and plunged his head into the flames.

Hermione imagined that it was her Muggle heritage that had predisposed her to the sudden alarm that she often felt at the sight of someone diving into a fireplace. She was confident that one day the sight of someone with their head engulfed in flames would no longer fill her with the urgent desire to call the fire brigade.

A few moments later, Harry pulled backwards, now sitting a few feet away from the fireplace with his forearms resting on his knees. He was smiling.

"Alright," he said in satisfaction. "We have backup."

"Who—" began Hermione, but the flames roared again and a figure stepped out into the room. He straightened up, brushed the dust off his shabby robes and smiled.

"Hello," said Lupin, looking genuinely pleased to see them.

"Hello, Remus," said Harry. The flames roared again, and another figure tumbled out, in what was very nearly a whirling, pink-colored somersault. She looked as though she would have sprawled right on the floor, but Lupin caught her deftly around the waist with one arm and pulled her casually into an upright position. He seemed as though he had a bit of practice in this exercise. Tonks responded to the contents of the room with an equally bright smile.

"Wotcher, Harry, Ron, Hermione—" Her eyes fell on Malfoy, and her smile faded. "And…_you_…" she finished, with quite a bit less enthusiasm.

Malfoy curled his lip, looking at them both disdainfully. "Hooray," he said dully. "We're _saved_."

"Hello, Draco," said Lupin, looking at Malfoy—not unkindly, but with more shrewdness than was usually present in his gaze.

"Mmm…" said Malfoy in response, folding his arms and gazing back at Lupin with narrowed eyes.

"_Ahem_," said Hermione, raising her eyebrows pointedly. A deal was a deal.

Malfoy looked at her, sighed, and then looked back at Lupin. "Yes, it's lovely to see you again, _Professor_," he grumbled, not looking at him, voice dripping with sarcasm. He stood up. "If you'll excuse me, I think I'll go check myself for fleas..."

Lupin looked skyward briefly, as if searching for patience. Not that he seemed to need it. You know. Ever. Harry, Ron, and Tonks all glared at his retreating back, but it was Hermione who serenely flicked her wand as soon as he was out of sight.

"Granger!" Malfoy screamed from what was probably his room. "Granger, you _bitch_! PURPLE IS NOT MY NATURAL HAIR COLOR!"

Hermione flicked her wand again, and there was a loud slam as Malfoy's door shut in what she sincerely hoped was his face. She turned, satisfied, to see everyone else in the room looking considerably happier.

Lupin looked exasperatedly up at the spot where Draco's voice had been emanating from. "Er—Hermione—that was probably unnecessary…" he said, smiling apologetically.

Hermione turned slightly pink.

"Yeah," said Ron, looking at her and grinning mischievously. "But it was _fun_, wasn't it?" Hermione met his eyes and smiled back, though she noticed her face did not immediately return to its normal hue.

"So," said Tonks, looking around at them. "What's this 'invitation' you all got?"

The three of them exchanged glances. Harry held his hands up. "Erm—why don't we go in the kitchen and…talk things over?"

000

It was a Muggle village.

The sun was sinking slowly, casting deep pink and red shadows over the grey gloom of the small houses clustered against the hillsides. It was so old the streets were cobbled, and worn dull from years of use. The werewolf had suggested they Floo to a nearby town and Apparate onto the road, so they could walk to the house without being caught at unawares. Everyone had agreed that this was a brilliant plan—and even Draco had to agree that it had its merits—but he was still annoyed.

This place made him uncomfortable. Why Snape would live in this Muggle…dunghill… was beyond him. It seemed to reek of Muggle failure, as if something powerful and promising had come here to die.

As they passed by, a dim street lamp glanced off of the bright pink head of the tart having a fling with the werewolf. It contrasted sharply with the bleak atmosphere around them, and clashed even worse with the orange top she was wearing. How she could stand to be seen in such a horrid outfit was beyond him—but then again, judging from her choice in boyfriends, her taste was obviously sorely lacking.

She and the half-breed were waking in front of him, close, but not holding hands, talking in low voices and occasionally smiling weakly. Potter, Weasley, and Granger were walking in front, looking wary.

Draco's eyes scanned the edges of the street. The hills sloped quickly into dark, dense tangles of trees. He glanced around him suspiciously. Every crackle of a twig could be someone watching them, every rustle of the leaves could be one of the Dark Lord's servants, waiting to ambush them. Every pair of glowing, flickering animal eyes in the forest could be an Auror, waiting to attack.

Or perhaps he had just spent too much time around his Aunt Bella, learning to be paranoid.

000

Spinner's End had the classic look of a small English town decaying slowly in the wake of the industrial boom of hundreds of years ago. It was fitting, she supposed, that Snape should leave in a place that was a drab and depressing as he was. And it was a Muggle village. Had he lived here as a child? Was this his father's house? What had happened to his parents? Were they alive somewhere?

Hermione skipped ahead a few paces, finding that she was lagging slightly behind Ron and Harry.

She looked behind her. Lupin and Tonks were behind them, talking quietly to each other. They were the right people for Harry to go to, she thought with satisfaction, quite proud of him. An Auror and a…an experienced teacher…erm…mentor…person. Who was good in a fight, it seemed. After all—he had survived this long. Oh, that was a rather depressing comparison.

Malfoy trailed along behind them, his eyes sweeping across the woods with an air of cautious alertness.

He _claimed_ to have finished the entire book she had given him. Well—she would see about that. She made a mental note to quiz him mercilessly later, to see if he was telling the truth.

"There it is," said Ron. They came to a halt in front of a small, dark house, quite similar to all the others around it. A candle flickered in the corner of one of the grubby windows. Upon seeing it, Hermione knew that his parents hadn't set foot in that house in ages, provided either of them still possessed feet or bodies at all. He lived there alone, just like he lived his life alone, and he obviously had no intent on changing that.

Severus Snape kept no man's counsel.

Apparently, not even Dumbledore's.

The six of them had clustered together, staring up at the house.

"Best to keep alert," instructed Tonks. "Attack can come from any side." She sounded like she was delivering a very cheerful version of Moody's 'CONSTANT VIGILENCE!' tirade. She looked pointedly at Harry, who accepted the transfer with only a moment of fleeting uncertainty.

"Right," said Harry, nodding. "Eyes open, wands out." He pulled out his own wand as if to demonstrate, speaking to the crowd like he was preparing them for a Quidditch match. "Keep close together."

With one swift, harsh look at the front of the house, Harry strode boldly forward towards the door, everyone else followed quickly in his wake.

000

The musty house looked like a library. Granger would probably be happy, but as he glanced over at her she looked pale and somewhat uneasy.

The house was horrid. It was small, and it looked as though it hadn't seen a house-elf's broom several decades. Draco's eyes scanned along the wall, following the line of dusty tomes to a high backed chair in front of a low burning fireplace.

Sitting in the chair, clothed in black robes, staring at them with a cool expression on his face, was Snape.

000

"Oh, look," said Snape, his black eyes falling on Lupin as he examined the assembled crowd. There was a rather nasty smile on his face. "I see you brought the whole…_menagerie_."

Lupin frowned slightly—his usual response to insults from Snape it seemed—but something flashed briefly in his eyes. Tonks coughed loudly into her hand, not so covertly instructing Snape to do something very rude and anatomically improbable with his wand.

Snape glared at her with narrowed eyes. "Sorry," she said sweetly. "I think I have a bit of a cough."

Hermione heard Draco snicker in the background. She lifted her wand a little higher, tensing her shoulders to feel the warm, solid forms of her friends standing shoulder to shoulder with her.

She glanced over the tip of her wand, which was aimed right between his eyes. The dying embers of the fire cast faint, reddish shadows that danced and shifted slowly across the dark room.

His white hands were folded in his lap, lip curling, staring back at forth between Harry and Lupin as if he were trying to decide which one of them deserved more of his ire. That was another bonus to bringing Lupin along. He seemed to act as a buffer for Snape's hatred, and he was far less likely to flip out and start hysterically firing curses into the air when insulted—as opposed to say…Harry.

Lupin was staring at Snape with a drawn expression, a slight frown—but otherwise calm and unreadable. Still, for a moment, there was something dark and almost cold flickering in his usually kind eyes. It disappeared quickly. He was still staring at Snape as though he had never seen him before.

000

Snape's wand was sitting on a small, polished mahogany end table next to him—not out of reach, but entirely in easy access. Draco estimated that he could probably curse him before he reached for it. If he felt threatened, that is.

"Charming," said Snape, staring at the pink haired girl as though she were something he had scraped out of the bottom of a cauldron. His eyes swept the room, appraising the half dozen wands pointed at him. "Though I think perhaps such a show of force was uncalled for."

Weasley snorted. "Really? Because I think this is awfully nice of us. We should have cursed you the minute we walked in the door."

"Be quiet, Mr. Weasley," responded Snape.

Weasley, much to Draco's amusement, fell silent as though they were back in school, and Snape had just threatened him with detention.

Draco snickered. "Honestly, Weasel—he's not your teacher anymore. You can tell him to shove it, if it strikes your fancy," he pointed out.

"Hey—" A look of pleased comprehension crossed his face. "You're right." He turned to Snape. "Don't tell me what to do, you great greasy troll-faced arse-headed—"

"I think that's enough, Ron," said the werewolf quietly, not taking his eyes off Snape. There was something very calculated about the way Lupin was aiming his wand at his current opponent. He had the stance of a seasoned fighter that the would-be Auror next to him didn't seem to have entirely matched. His father's associates were the same way; he recognized it well.

Weasley had fallen silent, obviously still open to the advice of the werewolf. "You know—he's not your teacher anymore _either_…"

"Shut up!" said the Golden Trio in unison, turning around and glaring at him.

000

Hermione fought to keep from fidgeting from nerves. This was a tense situation, with the potential to become highly explosive if they continued behaving like this. Disorder was very dangerous. They should have planned better…

"I suppose it was too much to ask for you to show some discretion, Potter," said Snape lazily, gazing at them. "The Headmaster assumed you would have caught on by now..."

Hermione caught Harry's shirt and gently pulled him backwards. At least he hadn't immediately lunged for Snape's throat.

She noticed that Snape had not said _his_ name…

"Are we alone here?" asked Hermione, finding her voice for the first time.

Snape turned his gaze to her, his black eyes burrowing into hers. She kept calm and flicked her eyes away from him, trying to avoid Leglimency, if possible. She kept her face impassive, hoping that her pale complexion wouldn't betray her nervousness.

"Yes," he said evenly.

"Good," said Harry. He straightened up, and Hermione let go of his shirt. "Why did you ask me to come here? You went though an awful lot of trouble, if you just wanted to kill me."

'If he just wanted to kill you—he would have had plenty of opportunities to do so,' thought Hermione. 'But that doesn't necessarily mean anything…' Snape's eyes flicked towards her, but she looked away haughtily.

"What do you want?" he finished.

"To talk," he said simply. "But I believe you are still too thick to actually trust anything I would have to say to you."

"Are you mad?" Harry let out a short, bitter bark of laughter, then stared at him incredulously. "Am I willing to trust you?" he said, in mock thoughtfulness. "Let me think about this for a moment—_NO_."

"There are a great many things, Potter," Snape spat, through clenched teeth, "that you do not yet understand."

"Oh," said Harry sarcastically. "And I suppose _you_—are going to explain to me, huh? Or perhaps you'd rather do what you usually do, stand there sneering at me and then inform me, in the most hateful voice you can muster, that you can't tell me because I am far too young, stupid, and or arrogant to understand? Fine."

Well—he had a point, she supposed…

Snape stared at him through narrowed eyes. After a pause, he began to stand up.

"I wouldn't move, if I were you…" said Lupin. He pressed his lips together tightly, as if to stop himself from saying anymore. Hermione could hear the unspoken word dancing on the tip of his tongue.

Murderer.

Snape straightened the rest of the way up and looked at Lupin.

"If the next thing that comes out of your mouth isn't absolutely polite," said Tonks, smiling. "I'm going to light your head on fire."

"Harsh," said Ron, nodding solemnly, "but fair."

Snape lifted a small box off of the table, and tossed it towards Harry, who caught it effortlessly. He moved to open it, but Hermione stopped him. No surprises. Not yet.

"I will be here, if you wish to contact me," Snape said, his voice toneless.

Harry snorted. "I never want to see your disgusting face again," he snapped back hatefully.

Snape smirked. "You will."

In a smooth, lightning fast motion, Snape snatched his wand off the table and brought it down in a swishing motion in front of him. Half a dozen counter-curses immediately flew towards him—but he hadn't attacked them—he had disappeared.

000

They sat at the table at Grimmauld Place, staring at the tiny box that Snape had thrown to Harry. It looked like it should be a jewelry box. It was square, about the size of her palm, with a skin of crushed black velvet and tiny silver hinges. Harry, taking into consideration the warnings that he should "BE CAREFUL!" slowly opened the box.

It _was_ a jewelry box. Inside was a smooth red pendant on a delicate gold chain. The thin body of a tin, intricately carved golden dragon was wrapped around it.

"Oooh," said Tonks, looking impressed. "Pretty." She waved her wand over it, muttered something, and the tip glowed faintly blue for a moment. "Not a Portkey," she said in satisfaction. "Or cursed. You can touch it if you like." She pushed it towards Harry.

He lifted it carefully out of the box, and examined it, the pendant swinging in the air.

"Yeah…" said Ron slowly. "It's very…erm—shiny. Now why the _hell_ would Snape give you a _necklace_?"

"He's been carrying around a torch for you for years, Potter," said Malfoy, grinning lazily. "This is the beginning of a beautiful courtship—ow!" He glared at Ron, who had apparently kicked him under the table.

Hermione looked at Lupin, who was silent. This wasn't uncommon, but he seemed paler than usual. His hands were folded in front of his face, resting in front of his nose, and his knuckles were white.

"What is it?" she asked him, curious.

"It's not just a necklace—" he said finally, lowering his hands. "It's got a special spell on it. They're very expensive, and very rare. No two are alike."

Harry examined the necklace as he spoke.

"Isn't that thoughtful?" sneered Malfoy. This time, Hermione kicked him. "Ow! I'm going to have bruises all up my bloody shin, now, thank you very much…"

Lupin spoke again, and Hermione returned her attention to the man who actually had something useful to say.

"There's a special charm on them, so they can't be lost or stolen. They can only be given away voluntarily by the owner."

"So? This was a present from Snape?" asked Ron, looking confused and disgusted. "Eww. And—_huh_?"

Malfoy looked as though he was considering saying something else snarky, but decided against it for fear of another swift kick to the shins.

"It wasn't his," said Lupin softly. "Not originally. I've seen that necklace before." He clenched his hands together, and he looked down at the tabletop.

"Whose was it?" asked Harry.

Lupin looked up at Harry, and drew a deep breath.

"It was your mother's."

000

**AN:** Yeah, I'm evil. The "jury" on where Snape's true loyalties lie chased me around my dorm room yesterday, threatening me with bodily harm if I didn't clearly define his position. But I escaped unscathed, and wrote this. Hahaha.

Anyway, sorry about the huge gap between updates. I think I'm going to go back to shorter chapters and more frequent updates.

Thank you all so much for the great feedback!


	19. Many Happy Returns

"_If you were born to honor, show it now;  
If put upon you, make the judgment good  
That thought you worthy of it."  
-William Shakespeare _

000

"It _what_?" asked Potter bleakly, his emerald eyes flashing in sudden alarm.

"Your mother's necklace," repeated the werewolf evenly. "It's rather distinctive. Turn it over." Potter spun the necklace in his hand, flipping it gingerly to reveal the tiny letters carved into the gold plating on the back.

"_L. E. P_."

"Merlin's wand and whiskers…" muttered Weasley.

It was a finely crafted necklace, in Draco's opinion. Perhaps even something too nice for the average well—_Mudblood_ to be wearing. No matter how clever, or beautiful, or exceptionally talented she was…he stole a sidelong glance at Granger, who was staring fixedly at the necklace, and felt his face go slightly hot. What was going on? Maybe this 'civility' garbage was going to his head…

"So she gave that to him?" Granger asked the half-breed. Draco could almost see the gears spinning in her head as she watched the smooth pendant glitter in Potter's hand. "Voluntarily?"

"What?" said Weasley in horror.

"No!" Potter practically yelled in reply.

"Charm like that, mate," said the pink hair trollop, looking apologetically at Potter, whose eyes immediately bulged out. "It's likely that she did."

"WHY?" he cried.

"Maybe she…thought she could trust him…" offered Weasley. "He's tricked everyone before…" He said this slowly, as if it pained him—or perhaps it was just the agony of straining his single, lonely brain cell into producing something useful to say.

This seemed to give Potter hope, or at least he frowned gravely and looked thoughtful.

"Or maybe she was having an affair with him." Draco looked at him and smirked. "It's hard to resist that socially retarded, devastatingly greasy charm. Just think Potter—your _real_ father could still be—"

In under three seconds, Potter had bounded over the table, knocked Draco to the ground in a flurry of clattering chairs, and wrapped his hands so tightly around Draco's white throat that he could only emit gurgling sounds in protest.

Draco's throat ached severely for several hours after the werewolf had pried them apart, but the look on Potter's face (which had at the time turned an interesting shade of magenta) was really more than worth it.

Draco pulled himself back into his chair, rasping and coughing. Weasley still hadn't stopped laughing hysterically; Granger was frowning and shaking her head, the pink haired girl (Tocks? Tak? Tink? Maybe it was Tink) was sniggering quietly, the werewolf looked exasperated, and Potter was gibbering out a string of incoherent, but hysterically upset psycho babble regarding his parentage.

"Yes, Harry," sighed the werewolf, forcing him down into a seat, where he continued to mutter and glare at Draco. "It's striking, how you look _exactly_ like Snape—only you have your mother's eyes." Harry paused his muttering and stared up at the werewolf, who raised an eyebrow and gave him a small smile.

"Ah…" said Harry, looking at the ground, then back at the werewolf. "But—"

"Lily was a very kind person, and she cared for everyone regardless of who they were," said the half-breed seriously. "But she would have never, never, been unfaithful to James."

"Especially not with Snape," blurted out Tink, disgusted.

"Especially not with Snape," he agreed, nodding.

Potter finally nodded, some of the color returning to his sheet white face. "Lupin—so…what could they…possibly have…?" he asked.

The werewolf shook his head. "Harry, I couldn't pretend to have the slightest idea. Lily gave James a right earful when she saw his picking on Snape, but she did that when he was rude to anybody, no matter who they were…Snape never seemed to be terribly grateful for her intervention."

Potter didn't look pleased but this information. "Every time I move the slightest bit forward I get knocked back even farther behind. And now I can't even kill Snape without questioning him first." He stared glumly at the tabletop.

Ugh. What a whiner. The pick haired girl stood up and began offering Potter words of encouragement, while Weasley nodded in vehemently in agreement. The werewolf looked rather exhausted, but everyone else seemed too preoccupied to notice, and Draco was finding it difficult to care. (Was the full moon coming up? It was, wasn't it? Damn! When were they leaving? Was it soon? Soon would be preferable. Right this second would be even better.) Draco stole another glance at Granger, who was chewing on her lip, her eyes distant.

000

He tricked her—she owed him something. No. Not enough.

She asked him for something—he owed her something. But what? No—that couldn't be it. There was more to it. But how could they possibly reconstruct a past that no one alive or probably untrustworthy had witnessed?

She needed to get rid of the necklace, and he offered to hide it. But why? It was just a necklace.

He needed the necklace for something. For what? To match his _earrings_? It was still just a necklace.

It was a token of something. Friendship. Love. Hatred. They got into a desperate scuffle with Death Eaters, and, lacking a suitable offense, she threw it at Snape's head. She lost a bet, playing strip poker…Arg!

Hermione fought the urge to bang her head on the table. This was rather frustrating. There weren't many books written such subjects, unfortunately, because her first instinct was to dive into the nearest library and burrow into a stack of books.

Lily was secretly a Death Eater. No, that was ridiculous. But she did get a fleeting and rather comical mental picture of Harry's head spinning around and exploding all over the walls.

Lily and Snape were secretly lovers? No! Eww…plus Lupin didn't think so…she didn't know Harry's parents personally—but any two people who could produce a son with as much courage, kindness, and integrity as Harry couldn't have been anything less than wonderful.

There had to be more to these…things that they didn't know. But no secrets Snape was holding could be trusted, could they…?

"Hermione?" She snapped out of her daze and fixed her eyes on Ron, who was staring at her. "What do you think?"

Such a very simple question, with so many very complicated answers. She opened her mouth, but it took a moment for words to form. "I think…this complicates things quite a bit…" she said slowly.

"Genius," said Malfoy dryly. "Now we all know why you're at the top of our class." 

She silenced him with a glare, which she was becoming disturbing adept at, and turned back to Harry. He did, didn't he…he listened to her. Life debt, perhaps? Or was the little berk finally starting to respect her? Not that it mattered…hmph. Jerk. "He obviously wanted your attention, Harry," she said.

"Which I'd say he got," piped up Tonks, folding her arms and giving them a quirked smile.

"Right," said Hermione. "He wants something more from you than just killing you would accomplish…which could be connotative of something even more horrible, though I don't know what…"

"You're like a walking ray of sunshine, Granger," Malfoy offered sarcastically. "That's what I like about all of you."

"Bite me, Malfoy," snapped Harry. 

"That's it!" said Malfoy in a mocking tone, as if suddenly enlightened. "He wants you for your stunningly witty and cunningly original comebacks, Potter!"

Lupin cleared his throat loudly, and Malfoy and Harry both shut up. "Harry," he began, in his usual kind tones. "Whatever the mystery is, I'm sure you'll get to the bottom of it. You always do. And don't forget, you have many wonderful resources around you." He looked between Ron and Hermione. Ron smiled, and Hermione blushed. "…whom I'm sure will be able to help you, no matter what the task…" 

His eyes fell briefly on Malfoy, as if to silently question why on earth he was still here, or if he could be of any use. Malfoy opened his mouth as if to inform him, or possibly just insult him. Hermione kicked him hard under the table.

"OW!" yelped Ron.

"Sorry…" apologized Hermione swiftly, wincing at her mistake. The kick however, still had its desired effect, as Malfoy was now too busy cackling at Ron's pain to insult anyone. 

"Anyway," continued Lupin, who looked as though he were desperately trying to hide his amusement, "as I said—I'm sure it will work out." His expression sobered slightly and he looked at his watch. "Tonks and I will always be here if you need anything—"

"As an Auror, I can get you an excellent deal on Fanged Frisbees, should you need a few particularly vicious ones to chuck at Snape's head," Tonks informed them, with an equally serious, though somewhat playful expression on her face.

"That is most assuredly _not_ what I was referring to," protested Lupin.

Tonks smirked mischievously at him. "Yeah, yeah, you'd like everyone to think that, would you?"

Lupin rolled his eyes, the looked back at Harry.

"I'm sure Fred and George would be happy to donate to our cause," said Harry brightly.

"That's the spirit," said Tonks. Hermione wondered briefly if Lupin was ever going to finish what he was saying, but he went on ahead anyway.

"Harry, I believe it's your birthday in two days, is it not?" he inquired. Harry nodded, almost surprised. Hermione felt a sinking feeling in her stomach. Had a month already flown by since they left school? Two days…well, one really—since it was a little past midnight. "I regret that I will be…preoccupied at that time—" Malfoy scooted his chair away from Lupin in alarm, as if he thought Lupin was going to suddenly sprout fangs and rip out his jugular at any moment. Huh. Not that he wouldn't deserve it! Bigoted git. Oh, that was a little harsh… 

"—but we've brought you a present in advance." 

Tonks pulled out a rather large wrapped package from nowhere and sat it on the table in front of Harry. "Happy Birthday!" she chirped.

"Wicked!" said Ron. "What is it?"

"It's a surprise, isn't it?" said Tonks, winking at him. "Don't open it until tomorrow! Well—we're on our way." She stood up, grabbing Lupin's arm.

"Goodbye," said Lupin as he was dragged out of the room. "Good luck. Contact us if you need anything."

"Bye!" called Tonks, from the other room, out of sight. Hermione heard a clink as the vase of Floo was taken off the mantle. "Come on," she said a lower voice, obviously talking to Lupin. "It's late. Let's get you into bed."

"But I still feel fine," said Lupin almost indignantly, as if she were insulting his obviously precarious health. "Just a little exhausted…I don't need bed rest for goodness sakes…"

"That is _so_ not what I meant." Hermione could almost hear evidence of a smirk on her face.

Lupin coughed loudly into his hand. Tonks called out an address, and a crackling roar indicated they had both disappeared.

The look of disgust that appeared on Malfoy's face at Tonks's last remark still had not faded. "Those two," he informed them, "are absolutely revolting."

"I think it's cute…" protested Hermione fondly.

"He looks very happy with her," offered Harry in agreement.

Malfoy snorted. "You'd be happy too, if you were an old man shagging an attractive young woman 20 years your junior."

"She's Charlie's age, I think," said Ron, who was still staring at the package on the table, seemingly forgetting the fact that it was not actually his birthday at all.

"There—see? She's only thirteen years younger than him," snapped Hermione. "And he's not even that old! And you're a _pig_, Malfoy!"

"Are you going to open this?" Ron asked Harry.

"I think she said to wait until tomorrow," shrugged Harry. Ron looked crestfallen.

"I'm going to bed," said Hermione, irritated, and stormed up the stairs.

000

_"Hermione…" Ron was down on one knee, clasping her hands warmly in his, gazing up at her with adoration. She barely concealed a smile, a flush of delight sweeping warmly across her face. "Hermione, I've loved you since before I even noticed girls. You're the most perfect woman I've ever known."_

There was a soft breeze blowing somewhere. She was wearing white. They both were. It just seemed like the right color, for such an occasion. And they were standing on a beach, or at least she thought they were. It could have been any body of water, she supposed. Perhaps even the lake at Hogwarts…she would like that, probably…

Ron fished something out of his breast pocket, fumbling it slightly in his freckled hands before holding it aloft before her.

"I can't give you the world, but I know you don't want it." Sincerity sparkled in his eyes, and in the tiny diamond before her. "All I can give you is my love, forever…Hermione—" He sucked in a breath. "Will—will you—will you marry me?"

"Oh, Ron," she said, her eyes misty. "Of course I will!" She kissed him, wrapping her arms tightly around his neck—when the scene suddenly froze.

Hermione sighed happily, and lifted the remote to pause the program she was watching. She looked quietly around the room, hoping she was alone, so she could watch it again—her favorite dream of all time. Over and over. It wasn't that large of a room, but it was cozy. She was sitting on the edge of a bed, watching a television mounted on the wall. The television was large and flat, and encapsulated in a gilded golden frame as though it were an aging portrait. She clicked the remote again. 

"Hermione….Hermione, I've loved you since before I even noticed girls. You're the most perfect woman I've ever known…I can't give you the world, but I know you don't want it…All I can give you is my love, forever…Hermione—will—"

"How many times are you going to watch that drivel?" drawled an exasperated voice from behind her. She gasped and swiveled around in the bed, the remote flying from her hands. Draco Malfoy was standing on the opposite side of the bed, arms folded, staring at the now blank screen with an expression of disdain. He was wearing a crisply fitted pure white suit, which, in combination with the white walls and his pale features gave him an almost ghostlike effect.

"I—" She waited for her heart rate to decline. She scowled at him. "What are you doing here? You're not supposed to be here."

"I got an invitation," he countered gleefully, holding aloft an envelope. "Besides…these things just—happen."

"Ha! I bet you invited yourself. Let me see that!" She bounded forward on the bed, snatching the envelope with a swipe of her hand. But, as she attempted to tear it open, it simply faded away to nothingness in her grasp.

"Aren't you sick of watching that by now?" demanded Draco, in an annoyed voice. "Why aren't you living it if it means that much to you?" His eyes fell on the sleeping boy in the bed. "Or at least imagining it properly."

Hermione followed his gaze. Ron was asleep in the bed behind her, curled up and breathing steadily on top of the perfectly undisturbed sheets. He looked surprisingly peaceful. It was an odd thing, watching someone sleep. Like being with them, and yet being quite undeniably alone at the same time.

"He's asleep," she informed him haughtily, as if it weren't obvious.

"He's a bit useless, isn't he, then?" said Draco, quirking his head slightly and raising an eyebrow at the motionless Ron.

"He'll wake up eventually!" countered Hermione defiantly. She moved her hand as if to touch his shoulder, but drew it back. Ron, naturally, did not notice at all.

"If you say so," Draco snorted, looking dubious. His eyes roved around the room. It was strikingly white, though the sheets of the bed were a deep crimson. It was completely devoid of furniture, though there were several portraits adorning the walls. Hermione looked at the pictures as well. They were arranged along the wall in a straight line, all different sizes, each one in an ornate golden frame.

To the far left there was a small boy with light hair, who continually threw terrified looks at Hermione. Next to him was a similarly sized portrait of Gilderoy Lockhart, who was continually preening and flashing blinding smiles at everyone who foolishly made eye contact with him. Next to him was a sullen portrait of Victor Krum, quite a bit larger than the other two. To the right of Krum's sulking self was an empty canvas, framed beautifully. It was staggeringly larger than the other portraits in the room, stretching almost from floor to ceiling.

"Who goes in that one?" he asked curiously, nodding his head towards it. 

Hermione flushed, looking away from him and allowing her eyes to fall back on the sleeping Ron. "I haven't decided yet," she mumbled.

"It takes up an awful lot of space, doesn't it?" he observed.

"Well…he's—he's very important to me…" she answered quietly.

"Where's Potter?"

"He's in a different room," said Hermione, now irritated. She stood up, and slipped out the lone door, making her way down the hall. She turned when she heard footfalls behind her. "Why are you following me, Draco?" she demanded.

"I don't know," he shrugged, looking honestly bewildered. "That's the big question, isn't it?"

"Well—stop it!" She stomped her foot in frustration.

He stared up at her almost sadly, his eyes glittering pale and cold in the empty hall. "I can't," he said softly.

000

Draco was actually having a rather nice dream, thank you very much. He was back at the Manor, sitting idly on a gilded throne that had somehow miraculously appeared in the living room. Several scantily clad veela were clustered around him, feeding him grapes and giggling stupidly. With a seductive grin, one of them pulled a red hot poker from the roaring fireplace and pushed it hard into Draco's forearm.

"OW!" he yelped, struggling to free himself. "Stop that!"

The woman shrugged. "You know I'm not the one doing this," she said idly, pushing the poker harder against his arm, his skin hissing in protest.

No, that was true, he realized, as something resonated in the back of his mind, sweeping him away into a vortex of not so long forgotten memories.

_Draco was dreaming of the past. As he moved forward, the shadowy figures beside crystallized into the presences of a recent memory, and the hallway around him spilled into a sickeningly familiar stone cavern. He drifted forward, detached, and knelt briefly before the Dark Lord's throne before shuffling backwards. His heart quickened in his chest. He had never been to this place before, and he had never stood in the presence of the Dark Lord without…his father._

School was out, in this moment in time. Fifth year had ended. It was late June. His mother stood beside him, in the front of the small crowd, with the other servants who had managed to escape. They seemed to number exactly one—Bellatrix Black. She looked shaken, and the mad gleam in her eyes was more pronounced than usual, a sort of hysterical desperation to cause pain that was so unique to her. A crowd of others stood clustered against the back wall.  


_The Dark Lord was speaking in an angry hiss, rattling off names that Draco couldn't seem to focus on. A list of the captured. But they didn't matter—they weren't here to bear his wrath. And furious he was indeed, seething raw and furious emotion that was pounding into Draco's skull almost like a physical force. Terror consumed Draco, but he did not move a single muscle, even though every fiber of his being was screaming at him to run._

"Lucius Malfoy," he finished, his burning red eyes boring into Draco and his mother. His mother grasped her cloak tightly in a white knuckled fist, but did not speak. "Lucius, whom I specifically charged with this task, Lucius whom I entrusted with a most vital responsibility—" His eyes narrowed. "Strung together like idiot children by that Muggle loving fool Albus Dumbledore and thrown in Azkaban like common thieves. All of my servants—useless to me!

"CRUCIO!" With a suddenness that made Draco jump, he flung his wand to the side, towards Bellatrix. For what was probably not the first time in several days, she was writhing on the floor and screaming. He withdrew his wand. All was silent, though her screeches echoed shrilly around the room, sending shivers up Draco's spine.

"My Lord, please, please forgive me…" she wailed bowing before him. "I was weak, I deserve it…" Draco fought hard not to curl his lip in disgust, despite the terror that enveloped him. How could she whimper at his feet, begging for mercy like a kicked dog? Where was her sense of dignity? Had she no pride in the blood she was fighting for?

"This is not your fault, Bella," said the Dark Lord. "Though your incompetence will not go unpunished. And Albus Dumbledore must be killed immediately. I will deal with later." He looked at Narcissa. "This—is Lucius's fault. Lucius has proven himself unworthy. He has cost me my servants, lost me an important battle, and humiliated me before my enemies." His crimson eyes flashed, his voice slowly building to a crescendo. He didn't have to scream to be terrifying. He was more terrible than anything else on earth.

"I have lost once more to that brat Potter, a mere child, the Prophecy has been irrevocably DESTROYED, and oh yes—my return has been announced rather publicly TO THE ENTIRE WIZARDING WORLD." His voice echoed in a screaming hiss around the cavern. He swiveled his head towards Draco's mother, twisting his neck like that of an angry cobra, his white nostrils flaring. 

"Narcissa Malfoy," he said, as if her name was a foul taste upon his tongue. Draco could feel his mother shaking next to him, but she held herself with dignity. That was more than could be said of her mad whore of a sister, at least. Two catlike pupils focused on her regal form.  


"_Yes, my Lord?" Her voice was barely above a whisper as she knelt before his throne. Only her eyes betrayed her fear. Draco started forward instinctually but Bellatrix clamped a claw-like hand down in his arm, stopping him.  
_

"_I warned Lucius—" He slowly raised his wand. Draco could see the breath catch in her throat. "That the price would be terrible if he failed me." He aimed between her eyes, both misty blue and wide as galleons. "I'll let him know, if he ever escapes, that you died screaming. I think that will be a suitable deterrent against future failures. Assuming of course, that he survives captivity." Bella snickered softly, though looked at Narcissa with a kind of nostalgic sullenness.  
_

"_No, p—" Draco almost slipped. Malfoys do not beg. "I'll do it! I'll kill him." He strode forward out of Bella's grasp and stood in front of his mother. "My Lord, I'll do whatever you wish. Anything. Spare her life…"  
_

_The Dark Lord stared at him, as though not quite sure if he should be furious or amused. "How old are you, Young Master Malfoy?"  
_

"_Sixteen, my Lord." Since June. Not a very nice birthday, hearing your father has been arrested, but it served its purpose. One year older…  
_

"_Harry Potter's age, are you not?"_

"_I am, my Lord."_

_The Dark Lord leaned forward slightly on his throne. Some of the feeling returned to Draco's knees as his wand finally lowered slightly. "And you wish for the chance to restore your family's honor?"_

"_Yes, I will do anything my Lord," he said. He couldn't believe what he was saying. He felt like he was having difficulty breathing… _

"_It will not be a small task, young Master Malfoy. Your father has shamed himself and his blood deeply, and it will take, I think…" White lips curled into a smile. "A very great success to dismiss such an egregious offense."_

_Draco's mother made a whimpering noise, next to him. He did not look at her, but at the floor, bowing deeply before his lord. "I will do whatever is required of me, my Lord. Anything."_

_The Dark Lord paused. Then quietly, "You will kill Albus Dumbledore," he said lightly, as if he were requesting him to fetch a cup of tea. Narcissa Malfoy gasped, Draco could feel her wide eyes boring into him. "I think that shall be…sufficient."_

_Draco clenched his hands. He could feel his nails biting relentlessly into his palms. _

"_Something you would like to say, Draco?" Another mocking smile. _

_That was the first time he had used his name. _

"_No my Lord." He looks up at the Dark Lord, his grey eyes blazing. "It shall be done as you wish."_

"_You will enter my service, then." His eyes bored into Draco's, but Draco refused to look away. It was like some weight was crushing his head, his eyes, just as he felt close to blacking out…"Clear the unmarked from the room," he ordered. The pressure released, leaving Draco feeling dizzy.  
_

_Draco was not familiar with the small crowd of people in the back of the room. He could hear his mother from behind him, her breathing ragged. She let out a muted whimper as someone dragged her harshly out of the room, struggling vainly to catch another glimpse of Draco. The door slammed behind them. _

"_Come, Draco," he beckoned. Draco moved closer to the throne and bowed before him. "Give me your arm…"_

_Draco extended his arm. The Dark Lord bent forward and wrapped his long, white fingers around his forearm, gingerly pushing up the sleeve of his shirt to reveal the soft underside of flesh above his fist. He ran a finger across it, smiling lovingly, as if her were an artist faced with a fresh, pure white canvas. A circle had formed around them, all wearing masks. _

_Draco smiled a little bit, as his arm was examined. He had imagined this moment for a long time. But…His grin faded…It wasn't like this…it wasn't desperation that drove him here. He wanted to own this moment, he wanted to choose it, at least…_

_The Dark Lord pulled out his wand and jabbed it onto the flesh of Draco's forearm. "Morsmordre," he hissed. First it was just a prickle…then stinging…then burning…the sensation consumed his entire arm, in a pain that drove him to his knees—but he did not cry out. Silver sparks danced in front of his eyes…the world seemed to contract violently for a moment…and then…_

_Silence. The world slid back into focus. The wand was drawn back, and Draco rose shakily to his feet. The Dark Lord leaned in, close to his ear. "If you fail, young Malfoy," he hissed, without a touch of amusement in his voice, "I will kill both of them. There is nowhere you can hide from me."_

_Nodding, dizzily, Draco backed away. His knees felt like rubber, and he was painfully aware of the burning sensation on his forearm, a sharp ache as though a knife had been driven into his flesh. Sweat was making his shirt cling to his neck._

_The Dark Lord rose to his feet, and his servants immediately collapsed to the floor. Draco was actually rather grateful for that at this point. He strode forward, as words of veneration were murmured from all around him, and stopped in front of Draco. Draco leaned down and kissed the hem of the Dark Lord's robes. "Master…" He looked up at him._

"_You are in my service now, until you die."_

"_Yes, my Lord."_

"_You will obey my wishes without question."_

"_Yes, my Lord."_

"_You will follow your brethren gathered around you, and all of their aid will be at your disposal as you attempt to fulfill your task."_

"_Yes, my Lord."_

_The Dark Lord smiled. "Good."_

_Draco was dismissed quickly, warned to tell no one of his mission. Bellatrix flashed him a rare (albeit depraved) smile as he left. He knew what she was grinning about. Congratulations, boy—now is your chance at honor. At glory. _

_She was right, he supposed. Honor, glory, a chance to restore the family name, he had looked forward to, he supposed. But there was also a tremendous burden—to placate the Dark Lord, so that she would have to pay the ultimate price…and his father—was he safe within the walls of Azkaban? Draco shuddered involuntarily. Nowhere. Nowhere was safe. The Dark Lord's power was boundless…_

_His mother was outside on a bench, shivering, though the warm air of midsummer was all around them. She whirled around when she saw Draco emerge from the chamber and raced to his side. _

"_Draco…" she murmured, her voice choked. She looked furious, and at the same time more heartbroken that he had ever seen her. "You should have let me take care of it…"  
_

"_Oh yes," snapped Draco, anger bubbling within him. He felt as though he were dangling by a dangerously frayed thread. "Your plan to die horribly for father's mistakes was absolutely brilliant! Inspired, really." _

She dropped to her knees before him, shaking her head. "It should not have been you—why did you do that? Are you mad? You're still—still a child…"

_He looked at her, dully, still rather unable to process just what had happened. His shirt was still rolled away from his arm, and her eyes were drawn to the black scar on his pale skin._

"I suppose I am not a child anymore," he said tonelessly.

"He'll—he could kill you—" Her hands clenched convulsively. "He's a doddering old fool—but—but—oh, no…"

"Thank you so much for the vote of confidence, mother," he hissed. "I'll do it! I will. And then—we'll be honored above the Dark Lord's other servants."

She shook her head, miserably. "You…you have no idea what you're getting into…and how could you? You've—you've never—this is—" His mother's expression finally cracked into a mask of desperate misery. She had put on such a brave façade for him when he returned from school, but he could tell how heartbroken this whole dreadful affair had made her. (The fact that he came home off the train looking more like a slug than a boy, oozing from a cadre of nasty jinxes, had not exactly helped.) "My son, my only son…" Her whole body shuddered and she pitched forward, throwing her arms around his midsection and gripping him tightly, her whole body shaking violently. Tears poured silently down her face. He rested a hand on her shoulder, and raised his arm blankly to get a better look. 

_A jet black scar. Skull and snake. He had doodled them in the margins of his Potions notebook for years. The pain had faded to a dull ache, though there was still a hint of red around the puckered edges. For what seemed like forever, he couldn't do anything but stare in silence, while his mother's shivering, mournful wails spilled forth and echoed around the room. _

000

"YOU DID WHAT!" screamed Granger's voice, drifting up from the downstairs level of Grimmauld Place.

"Keep your voice down!" hissed Weasely in alarm. "This is supposed to be a surprise!"

Draco, now quite inexorably awake, stared in boredom at the ceiling, unconsciously rubbing his forearm. Bloody hell.

After a few moments of careful preening in the bathroom, he made his way downstairs. It was morbid curiosity really, that made him decide not to stay upstairs. Also, he was hungry—and there was the added bonus of watching Granger scream at Weasley. Heh. That was always worth the trip.

"THIS IS A BLATANT ABUSE OF ELF LABOR!" said Granger furiously, gesturing madly, as if words alone weren't enough to express her indignation. "I can't believe you!"

"He _wanted_ to help!" countered Weasley. "You know him. He _loves_ Harry. Bloody mad about him. It's right creepy sometimes."

"You're exploiting him!" she countered, point a finger accusingly in his freckled face. "_Exploiter_!"

"I am _not_ explating him!" said Weasley defensively.

"She said, '_exploiting_,' you dullard," said Draco. He was sitting at the table with his head resting on his chin, watching them lazily, is if they were a particularly hostile Quidditch match. They both jumped slightly when he spoke, whirling around to face him as if they had forgotten everything else in the world except screaming at each other. "What _are_ you two on about anyway?"

"Ronald here—" Granger stared at him with narrowed eyes. "Decided to contract Dobby to make a birthday cake for Harry—completely exploiting his generosity and affinity for Harry! It's absolutely disgusting—"

"He wanted to help!" roared Weasley. "You are completely bonkers!"

Draco rolled his eyes theatrically. "Then why don't you _pay_ the bloody wretch if that's what you're on about! Merlin, you're giving me a headache! How does Potter put up with this shit all day long?"

They both stared at him blankly, silent for a moment, and then looked at each other.

"Well, that's a good idea."

"Sounds fine to me!"

"Good. That would be fair."

"Fine! I will!"

"Fine!"

"Great!"

This was followed by more silence.

"Speaking of, where is Potter, anyway? I don't see how could have slept through the racket you two were making," asked Draco.

At that moment, Potter wandered down the stairs and into the kitchen, looking around at the assembled crowd. "Morning."

"Good morning," chirped Granger, as if she had been perfectly cheerful all day, and had not in fact been screaming like a mad banshee at Weasley a few minutes ago.

"Happy Birthday, mate," added Weasley.

"Thanks," said Potter, smiling.

"Good lord, Potter," said Draco, who had jumped back in alarm the moment Potter had entered the kitchen. "What the hell is on your head?"

Potter looked upwards. "My hair," he replied, staring at Draco as if he were quite mad.

Draco curled his lip in disgust. "Does it always look like that in the morning?" he asked in horror. The jet black, disheveled mass on Potter's head looked like flock of angry seagulls had all tried to nest in the same place, gotten into a terrific fight over it, and all flown away, leaving a mass of unruly, tangled devastation in their wake. The only thing the hair style was missing was several twigs sticking at odd angles.

"Stop staring at my head, Malfoy," grumbled Harry. Draco just shrugged, resolving not to look directly at Potter's head until he at least tried to comb his hair. The sight was liable to make him go blind.

"Do you want to open your presents, now?" asked Weasley, excitedly.

"I opened Lupin and Tonks's already," said Potter brightly. "It was wicked. Do you want to see?" He darted out of the room for a moment and returned with a box, the lid open and flapping in the air. He set it down in the table.

"You…opened it already?" asked Granger in a small voice, looking somewhat upset. "Without anyone there? On your _birthday_?"

Potter looked up at her, suddenly confused. He paused, as if it had never occurred to him not to. "Well—I—I mean—I always open my birthday presents alone…" he said slowly. "I'm very sorry—" he added, seeing the heartbroken look on her face. "I didn't really think about it…"

"Of course you didn't!" she said, with passionate sympathy, throwing her arms around him and hugging him tightly. "Don't apologize! Oh Harry, Happy Birthday!" She continued to squeeze him, her eyes over-bright, until he protested in a strangled voice that he was starting to have significant difficulty breathing. Granger released him, and backed away. Draco mockingly pantomimed crying over Potter's lonely childhood from behind the table, but no one noticed.

"What's in the box?" asked Weasley, peering at it curiously. Potter reached in and began to pull things out, spreading them out on the table. There was a black dragonhide jacket, gloves, sunglasses, a rather dorky looking helmet, and a pair of silver keys. The last thing he pulled out was a letter, which Granger accepted and began reading, pausing occasionally to comment worriedly.

"_Harry, Happy Birthday, from both of us. I know some of these objects may seem rather odd, but I assure you they all serve a purpose. Sirius brought it to my attention several times whilst we were staying at Grimmauld Place that there was a perfectly good flying motorbike gathering dust in the attic_—'Oh, no, please tell me he didn't'—_and no one was using it to wreak havoc on the wizarding world. He seemed adamant that you should receive it. (Naturally, I tended to blame this aspiration on cabin fever, but I digress.) Now that you are of age, you can freely ride (within reason) anywhere you wish without Ministry restriction. The clothing included also belonged to Sirius—he insisted that no self-respecting cyclist should be without a good leather jacket (and I assure you, the girls at school had no objections), so I imagine he intended for you to wear them in conjunction with the motorbike, should you choose to accept it. I have included the helmet that goes with the bike, though Tonks assures me that there is 'no way in hell' any teenage boy in their right mind would wear it—I felt it prudent to at least include the option. _'You really ought to wear it, Harry.' _So, in conclusion, we wish you the very happiest of birthdays and hope that you enjoy your present, '_Someone wrote "as responsibly as possible," and it looks like someone else scratched it out—' _Sincerely, Remus and Tonks."  
_  
"It really is up in the attic," said Potter in satisfaction. "I just checked."

"Wicked," said Weasley, clapping his hands together, his eyes alight. Draco's mind briefly formulated a plan to convince Weasley to ride the flying bike into the side of a building, but he dismissed it.

"Oh, Harry," said Granger nervously. "Are you really going to use the bike? It's probably so dangerous…"

"That's the point of it, isn't it?" said Weasley, as if it were obvious.

"Are you at least going to wear the helmet?" she asked in an almost pleading voice. Potter looked at her guiltily.

"I'll—er—think about it," he offered. Weasley made a face. Granger looked a little bit relieved.

"Are you going to wear this?" asked Weasley, picking up the jacket and examining it. "This is a nice jacket! Must be dragonhide. Fred and George just bought a pair…"

"Ginny would probably appreciate it," said Granger, with a slightly twisted smile. Potter and Weasley reddened. The female Weasel. Wasn't Potter dating her? Most people in Slytherin seemed convinced she was some sort of mad little tart. Plus those skirts she wore were a bit too short for her propriety to remain wholly intact. Not that he ever _noticed_ her, of course.

Draco sneered. "The famous Harry Potter, covered head to toe in leather? I'm sure gaggles of girls will chase you right down the street…"

"Well, the ensemble wouldn't be complete unless I borrowed those dashing leather trousers you were wearing earlier, Malfoy," he retorted. Weasley snickered. "Though I imagine you destroyed them the first chance you got."

Draco leaned backwards casually in his chair and folded his arms. "Actually they're upstairs." Weasley goggled at him.

"You kept them?" squeaked Granger, who had gone beet red.

To be honest, Draco had considered destroying them, as a sign of the humiliation Granger had put him through. However, he was unable to reconcile wiping the trousers from the face of earth with how gorgeous they made his arse look, and kept them. "If you're quite done fantasizing about me in leather trousers, you can borrow them sometime, Potter," he smirked unabashedly.

000

Malfoy…wearing leather trousers…NO! Malfoy wearing leather trousers is repulsive, she scolded herself. 

"Here—" said Hermione brightly, racing to the side of the kitchen and picking up a package. She sat it down next to the biker ensemble. "Happy Birthday!"

"How many times do all of you have to say 'Happy Birthday' in the span of five minutes? I think he gets it," sighed Malfoy. Everyone ignored him. It _was_ his birthday, after all.

Ron disappeared from the room for a moment and quickly returned, placing another box next to Hermione's. Harry, after a bit of encouragement, and still looking slightly bashful, opened them. Hermione had bought him a book. She knew of course, that Harry did not read quite as…_often_ as she did, but she stubbornly believed that anyone could appreciate the gift of literature, so long as they received the right book. She had bought him _Grindewald Defeated_, and _Legacy of Greatness:_ _The Life and Times of Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore_.

She had actually read both books cover to cover while standing in the store and debating whether or not to buy them. The Dumbledore biography had come out practically the moment his funeral ended. She recognized the author, Melvin Remington, as the keynote speaker from the funeral. The book was an interesting read, of course. Dumbledore had lived a fascinating life, but the book lacked fundamentally the qualities of warmth and…enlightenment that the Headmaster possessed. It was a shame, because in Hermione's opinion, those were the qualities that had made him truly great. What she had really regretted was that Dumbledore had left behind no written memoirs, no autobiography for the ages to remember him by.

"He didn't seem like the type to write things down," observed Ron. He had been in the bookstore with her as she complained about this particular issue, trying to discreetly hide the copy of _Wicked_ _Witches in Short Skirts!_ he was looking at. "He left behind his actions for everybody to remember. That was his 'Legacy of Greatness', or whatever is in that book."

Ron had bought him a set of fingerless Quidditch gloves, (No More Slipping Off Your Broomstick, No Matter what the Weather, Guaranteed!) made from black leather and trimmed with a thin line of gold. They would compliment his uniform rather nicely, in Hermione's opinion. Harry seemed genuinely grateful for both gifts, but Hermione rather regretted that neither of them had managed to buy him something really amazing, like a shield that could repel curses or a nice wristwatch that would make him invincible. You know. Something _practical_.

Malfoy was looking boredly at them. "Finally, someone else noticed how often Potter goes tumbling off his bloody broomstick."

Harry glared at him. Malfoy stared back at him. "You can stop staring at me Potter," he said smoothly. "I didn't get you anything."

"If you would just shut the hell up," said Harry, "it would be the best present ever."

"Fine," said Malfoy. "For ten minutes, I won't say anything nasty."

They looked at him, slightly bewildered for a moment, before continuing their conversation.

"Thank you for the presents guys," said Harry sincerely. "They're brilliant, really."

"I hope Quidditch starts up again," sighed Ron. "I'm going to miss the games…"

"It figures Weasley, that the only thing you miss about academia is '_sports'_," snorted Malfoy. 

"That was definitely not 10 minutes, Malfoy," Harry informed him. "That was more like two."

"You just can't stand not to be the center of attention, can you?" snapped Hermione.

"I said I wouldn't say anything nasty," he clarified. "I didn't say I would stop saying things that were true." They all stared at him. "Well—" He looked around at their indignant faces. "If I wanted to be nasty I would tell Weasley that his face looks like a—"

"Go—read—" Hermione cut him off jerkily. She picked up a book and slapped it against his chest. "Somewhere else!"

Grumbling about sappy Gryffindor gits, Malfoy slunk off into the living room.

"We need to get rid of him," said Ron, frowning.

"You mean kill him?" asked Harry, his eyes widening.

"No, I don't mean _kill_ him," countered Ron. He seemed to ponder this for a moment. "But, since _you_ brought it up, I mean—"

"We can't kill him," pointed out Hermione, feeling, as usual, like the only sane person in the room. "It would be unethical."

"You and your 'ethics'," muttered Ron.

"Look—" sighed Hermione. "Let's not worry about what to do with him now. Today should be…fun. I know we've hit a bit of a sticking point…but it's not really a dead end—and we'll _never_ give up, will we? So…maybe for one day we can forget that there's a piece of Voldemort's soul and a diary full of Dark Magic hidden in the living room next to a former Death Eater and just…I don't know. Do something fun."

"_Hermione_," said Ron, in a mock scolding tone. "How very _unpractical_ of you."

"Ha ha," she countered dryly.

"You called him a 'former' Death Eater," said Harry softly. Hermione looked up in surprise. "Do you really think that's true?"

Hermione twisted her hands. "I don't know," she said truthfully. "Since when did _I_ become the expert on Malfoy?"

"You did save his worthless life," pointed out Ron.

"Come on, Hermione," said Harry, throwing her a small smile. "You know everything."

Hermione shook her head. "I don't know…not everything is written in books." They were all quiet for a moment.

"We don't technically need him anymore," said Ron. "We got what we needed out of the diary, didn't we?" He looked from Harry to Hermione.

"I think we did," she said.

"But he knows what we're doing," said Harry, with a touch of urgency in his voice. "What if he goes running back to Voldemort and spills his ferret guts to him?"

"I don't think he will," Hermione said. "He's not exactly pleased with the way Voldemort treated his family, and all that bullocks about 'Pureblood family honor' is all he talks about. It's really quite annoying."

"So he hates Voldemort more than he hates _us_ right now, is that it?" asked Ron.

"Basically—yes. I think so."

"Huh," said Ron contemplatively. "That's a new one. But that doesn't change who he is."

"I never said that it did," she responded evenly.

"But he would sell us out if he felt threatened," said Harry harshly, staring at Hermione as if he expected her to disagree.

"Perhaps," she said fairly. "So I think if we are going to separate from him, we have to find him some place to hide." Ron made an exasperated, huffing noise. "I think we owe him at least that."

"We don't owe him anything," growled Ron.

"Yes we do," snapped Hermione. "How else would we have gotten into Malfoy Manor for goodness sakes? He's an ass, but he's been helpful, and it's not fair to him to leave him to get blown to bits by the same people we are trying to fight."

Ron and Hermione both looked Harry, as if he could cast the deciding vote. Harry raised an eyebrow at both of them. "Fine," he said after a pause. "We'll find him a place to stay. That sounds fair. But we have to make sure he doesn't start spilling our secrets to the wrong people."

000

Granger, the mad bint, had given him a book of Muggle psychology. It was thick and ugly and smelled like chemicals. Muggle books always smelled odd. So did Muggles, for that matter, in his opinion.

Draco slammed the book shut on a full page detailed picture of a human brain. It looked…squishy. Despite the strange renovations that had seemingly been perpetrated on the house, he still felt more at home here than he did elsewhere. It was an old wizards house, and the fact that it might in some remote way belong to him was rather comforting. 

He sunk further into his chair and sighed. Much as he was loathe to admit it, Draco often did feel like his life was spinning out of control. He realized, with some degree of astonishment, that the world he had lived in for the past 17 years was not in fact anything at all like the world he was currently living in.

He felt as though he had missed something. Had he really been that…sheltered? The events of this past year had more or less thrust him to the brink—no privileges, no help, no nothing. Just cold threats. It made his head spin. He could barely reconcile this chilly, current reality with his perception. He felt as though he should be able to tap someone on the shoulder and say, _"Excuse me, are you sure this is the real world? Because it seems to be broken. Is there anyone I could talk to about fixing it? I am, after all, a Malfoy, and thusly am entitled to certain special privileges_."

Draco was still wallowing in self pity when a loud pop sounded in front of him. Startled he whirled around in the chair, wand out.

"Happy Birthday, Harry Potter sir!" squeaked a disturbingly familiar voice. Draco gaped. It was a house-elf, and not just any house-elf—his old house-elf. And that wasn't all—the elf was surrounded by floating cakes, twisting and bobbing in the air around him. Draco continued to stare blankly at the elf, who finally caught sight of him in return and shrieked as though he had been trodden on. 

"Master Draco!" squealed the elf in alarm. Without missing a beat, the elf began running in panicked circles, wailing and banging his head against things.

"Stop shrieking, you little worm," said Draco, annoyed. The elf looked at him as if conflicted.

"Master Draco cannot order Dobby around anymore," said the elf defiantly, his voice trembling slightly. He spread his skinny arms wide. "Dobby is free." He sounded pleased with himself.

"If what you do with your freedom is run around shrieking and banging into walls, it's little wonder that you're all enslaved, is it?" Draco replied lazily.

The elf stared at him, slightly abashed. "Dobby enjoys his freedom. Dobby can do as he pleases."

At least he had stopped shrieking. "I really don't care what you do," said Draco honestly.

"Dobby is looking for Harry Potter sir." The elf still had trouble looking directly at Draco.

Draco sighed. "He's in the kitchen." Draco stood up and left the living room, pausing at the door of the kitchen to listen in.

"Fine," Potter was saying. "We'll find him a place to stay. That sounds fair. But we have to make sure he doesn't start spilling our secrets to the wrong people."

"I can give you my word," said Draco. They all whirled around to stare at him. "That's plenty."

"Must you eavesdrop all the time?" said Granger exasperatedly.

"There's a mad house-elf in the living room," Draco informed them, folding his arms. "He's very _annoying_."

"Dobby!" said Weasley brightly. "Dobby come in here!" He called loudly. Granger cleared her throat loudly. "…please."

A moment later, the elf appeared in the doorway, still surrounded by the floating cakes that jostled against the doorframe. "Dobby has baked 17 cakes for Harry Potter, sir!" he squeaked excitedly. "One for every year."

"You know…" said Granger, staring weakly at the cakes, which floated down and crowded onto the tabletop. "Candles usually suffice…"

"You only baked me one cake on my birthdays," huffed Draco. One cake. Never mind the fact that it was three feet tall and iced with several dozen tiny serpants…

"That's because Master Draco was _mean_," said the elf shrilly, its tiny eyes bulging.

"You little—" said Draco, advancing on the elf. It squeaked and scampered behind Potter's legs.

"If you threaten him again, I'm going to turn you into a slug!" said Granger, a glint of hysteria in her eyes. She pulled her wand out and pointed it at him.

"You're all completely mad." Draco threw up his hands and backed away from the elf.

"There are 18 cakes here, Dobby," said Weasley.

"Wow, Weasley, I didn't know you could _count_," said Draco, sounding impressed.

"The last cake is from Kreacher." The elf looked uneasy. "Dobby told him he should make his master a cake on his birthday, but Dobby is not sure what Kreacher put in the cake…"

Weasley poked the cake on the end of the table with his wand. It was frosted jet black, and the surface squirmed and pulsed slightly as if the inside were full of something writhing and slimy.

"Let me guess," said Weasley, floating the cake into the rubbish bin with a disgusted grimace, "Kreacher's maggot surprise…"

"Eww…" said Potter.

"He's just a little unbalanced," said Granger worriedly. "He's old."

Draco stared blankly at her. "He put _maggots_ in a _cake_. That's not unbalanced. That's purposefully disgusting."

Crazy bint.

000

Poor Kreacher. Hermione glared at Malfoy. He was just old and senile. And bitter. He had been exposed to a lifetime of abuse and forced labor! It wasn't his fault.

"Dobby must be going, if Harry Potter does not mind," piped up Dobby, staring up at Harry.

"Of course Dobby," said Harry kindly. "Thank you for the cakes."

Dobby's wide eyes brimmed with tears. "Harry Potter is so kind!" he cried in a wobbly voice. He threw a pair of tiny arms around Harry's legs and hugged him. "Dobby hopes Harry Potter has the very Happiest of Birthdays!" He backed up, still sniffling with emotion, and disappeared. "Goodbye!"

After a moment's pause, the general consensus seemed to be that they should dig into the cakes. Hermione helped herself to a slice of strawberry torte, and found herself slightly traumatized at the sight of three teenage boys consuming cake as if they had survived a several year famine. Well—two at least. Harry ate about two-thirds of a cheesecake and Ron finished off an entire carrot cake. Malfoy ate about half of a chocolate layer cake before he started to look bored and pushed it away.

Watching Ron eat cake was a very distinct sight. She had no idea how someone so skinny could eat so much so quickly. It was one of the mysteries of the universe, she supposed. Harry ate the way he always did when he was consuming something delicious, particularly anything with sugar in it. Quietly, looking around everyone and awhile as if he expected someone to come scream at him and snatch it away. Malfoy ate very slowly, with dignity, as if were some sort of important, preoccupied foreign dignitary.

"Bill and Fleur's wedding is in two days," said Hermione, breaking the silence associated with stuffing cake in one's mouth.

"Mum will murder you if you don't show," said Ron to Harry, very matter-of-factly.

"I _was_ planning on going, you know," said Harry, shrugging.

"She's expecting us to stay over the night before," added Hermione pointedly.

Harry looked at Malfoy. "Malfoy…"

He raised an eyebrow, arms folded. "Yes, Potter?"

"We're leaving here soon, for a few days. We won't force you to leave—no, if you say anything stupid right now I am going to punch you—you can stay here if you'd like. You need somewhere to lie low for awhile, we understand. You could have walked away from us a dozen times, but you didn't. But now I want assurance that you aren't going to tell the Death Eaters what you know."

"Bullshit," hissed Ron. "Can't we just modify his memory?"

"It's not enough. If he wants to betray us he will," said Harry flatly. "Well Malfoy?"

"I really don't like you, Potter," said Malfoy. He and Harry were both standing now.

"I can't exactly claim to be fond of your stupid arse, either, Malfoy," replied Harry.

"But I give you my word," he extended his hand forward and Harry took it. "By my honor as a wizard, I will keep your confidences…" His eyes roamed away from Harry and he locked gazes with Hermione. "…if you will keep mine."

Ron's mouth was shut very tightly. He clearly did not agree with Harry, but he was not about to disagree with his friend when he had made up his mind.

In Ron's eyes, Hermione knew, Malfoy had no honor. But she had learned over the course of time that there were different types of honor, and—odd as it seemed—Draco was likely to throw himself off of a cliff before dishonoring a vow.

Even if he was still a rude, smarmy little git.

000

**AN:** Ah, yes. I love Lupin, but every time I try to bring him into the story, he runs away. Dammit! Now I know why he's always at the fringes of the story…(though that doesn't mean I'm not disappointed…) Here's how it usually goes:

**Authoress:** Lupin, Harry needs your help.

**Lupin:** OK. (shows up, helps Harry in a wise, friendly, mentoring capacity, and is generally adorable) Done! Well, I'll best be off then. Call me if you need anything else, Harry!

**Authoress:** Dammit, where do you think you're going? Get back here!

**Lupin:** Sorry, I have to go be broody and aloof, and yet still remain steadfast in my commitments, and have an excellent sense of humor about it.

**Authoress:** No brooding! Get back here and interact with the other characters!  
**  
Lupin:** Sorry. I have werewolf stuff to do.  
**  
Authoress:** You do not! There's only a full moon once a month! What the hell do you do with the rest of your time?

**Lupin:** Ha! Don't you and every other rabid fangirl want to know! Well…usually I read meaningful works of literature and contemplate them. Then I brood about the fact that my life is a swirling vortex of doom in which everyone I love is taken away from me in a tragic, tragic way, while society shuns me like a particularly contagious leper.

**Authoress:** Aww…do you need a hug?

**Lupin:** Ok, ok, fine. I have to go shag Tonks. Are you happy now?

**Tonks:** Well, _I'm_ happy!  
**  
Authoress:** Yeah…I guess. But I'm dragging your tragically heroic ass back here sometime soon, so get used to it!

Yeah. It's exactly like that. Hehehe…Wow, that flashback was so angsty. Draco torture! Ah well…he'll have to share that little story with Hermione _eventually_. Won't that be interesting?

Sorry there wasn't a lot of action in this chapter. Just a lot of chatter. Hopefully it was amusing chatter. (PS: This is the longest chapter I have written so far. So much for the 'shorter chapters' thing. I just couldn't find the right place to end it.)

**Next time:** Draco is bored, everyone eats more cake, horrible doom looms in the distance, families are united and reunited, there is more dancing, and Ginny and Hermione discuss 'boys.' Heh heh.


	20. Comfort and Joy

_Explanations comfort us by giving the impression that there is an order in things._ – _Mason Cooley_

000

Cake, Hermione was quite certain, was not an acceptable breakfast food. Nor was it acceptable to eat cake for lunch, immediately following several hours later with more cake for dinner. In fact, if she saw one more piece of cake, she was fairly certain she would end up being violently ill in the middle of the kitchen.

"I hope you all know that we can't keep eating cake every day, especially not for breakfast," she informed her companions at the table. She was immediately rewarded with several blank stares.

"Fwhy noot?" inquired Ron in bewilderment, through a thick mouthful of chocolate cake. Apparently, it had never occurred to him that cake was, indeed, not the breakfast of champions.

"I—erm—I don't know…" said Hermione lamely. It just felt instinctually wrong on some fundamental level.

"It's very good cake," offered Harry diplomatically, which Hermione couldn't argue with.

"Do you think you'd be able to conjure up something better?" asked Malfoy, in a tone that wasn't entirely cool or accusatory. He almost looked hopeful, though he had dutifully been devouring cake for the past day and a half.

"Oh, no," she said, blushing slightly. "I'm not a very good cook."

"Granger isn't—good at—something?" stammered Malfoy in mock surprise. "Oh, Merlin, I think the universe is collapsing in on itself…"

Hermione found that ignoring him was usually the best course of action. Hermione had actually tried to teach herself how to cook, in her fervor of SPEW related activities fourth year, finding it unacceptable to be eating food that had been prepared by slave labor. And it wasn't that she couldn't perform food spells…it was just that they required a little more creativity than procedure—and it wasn't even a logical sort of expansion of theory, (she had no trouble with that sort of thing, of course.) It was just…messy. Messy and indefinable and…everything she conjured ended up tasting like…pineapple. She rather liked pineapple, you know—but there was something unsettling about spending a week eating meals that did not remotely consist of any sort of tropical fruit whatsoever, and having then taste exactly like…pineapple. Much to her own dismay—she broke down and returned to the Great Hall, devouring the food of the oppressive class system with a grateful longing that filled her with guilt. But at least guilt didn't taste like _pineapples_. Yeesh.

Hermione stared at Harry and Ron as they devoured the cake. They were doing it quite cheerfully too, as if it were a rare, delightful surprise that they were eating cake at this very moment, and they had not in fact been eating nothing but cake for over a day.

"So cake it is!" said Ron, as if that resolved it. "Nothing wrong with eating it."

"Yes there is," countered Hermione indignantly.

"Like what?"

"Well—it's not—and what about—and—I don't know….MY PARENTS ARE DENTISTS!" she finished desperately, her voice rising.

They stared at her. "Cake?" offered Harry politely, passing her a plate.

She slumped down in her seat, defeated, eyeing the assembled legions of evil, evil pastries with a resolved kind of misery. She sighed. "Pass the strawberry torte, would you, Ron?"

000

Draco poked tiredly at his slice of cake. He was very sick of eating cake, but there was absolutely no one to complain to about this issue, (at least no one who would be in a position to resolve this crisis) so he continued to consume the cake in a resigned, if not slightly embittered, fashion.

The Golden Trio was leaving in a few hours to go to 'the wedding,' which would effectively leave him alone in the house. It was a bit of a relief to be honest—he had been longing for some peace and quiet. Well—not that his housemates were loud…or raucous, really…actually, he was fairly sure it was just the idea of them there that made him feel suffocated.

Yesterday had been an…interesting day. Weasley had gotten it into his head that they needed to do something "fun" for Potter's birthday, other than stand around and hug and wish him a "Happy Birthday." (They did in fact, wish him a happy birthday approximately 57 times, if Draco's calculations were correct.) Weasley disappeared for an hour and returned with a set of black and glass metal boxes, the origins of which he would not share with Granger, despite the hysterical tone her voice took on when she caught sight of him with the contraptions. Weasley identified them to be a 'tellyvibbon' and 'vid-thingy.' It took Draco a moment to realize that he probably meant a Muggle _television_, which confused him briefly because it looked nothing like the television in Granger's house.

After a terrific shouting match involving 'ecklecticity,' wires, and the ethics of using stolen ("Borrowed! I borrowed it!") property, they eventually settled down in front of the television to watch a Muggle movie about 'spaceships.' The movie consisted mostly of people running around and screaming, whilst things exploded. The explosions were kind of neat, in Draco's opinion. But he had a hard time understanding why Muggles were so fascinated by the idea of killing each other with shiny metal sticks, or big glowing swords for that matter. It seemed to lack…artistry. A real battle required wits and cunning and power. Not a metal rod that shoots out…

"What are those things again?" Draco had asked.

"Lasers," said Granger. "It's a laser gun."

"What's a laser? I thought Muggle wands spewed out little bits of metal." That was, in Draco's opinion, even sillier, but those were Muggles for you.

"Muggles don't really have laser guns," said Granger, not taking her eyes off the screen. "It's a special effect."

"What's a—"

"Would you shut up and watch the movie already?"

Fine. Whatever. As if he cared about silly Muggle things anyway. The hero of the movie was self-righteous and kind of whiny. Draco found himself reminded of Potter.

_Tap. Tap. TAP._

Draco was pulled from his series of not so fond memories by noise that sounded like it was coming from the window. He looked up from his cake. Weasley had heaved open the window, allowing two solemn looking owls to soar into the room and make a few slow laps around the ceiling before dropping two packages of letters onto the table.

Potter lifted one of the four letters and stared at it for a moment, a slight frown tugging at the corners of his mouth. "They're from Hogwarts," he said finally.

"Are they?" Granger's eyes lit up almost hungrily, and her hand darted out to snatch up one of the letters. "Ooh, I—" She paused when she saw the rather closed look on Potter's face. "—wasn't planning to go back anyway, of course, but you know—" She trailed off with a nervous laugh, and the somewhat awkward silence was broken by the sound of her eagerly tearing open the envelope in her hands.

000

"_Dear Ms. Granger_," said the letter, in blank, overly formal script. The text was squeezed onto the first two inches of parchment, leaving a vast empty space on the rest of the paper, full of unanswered questions. "_In light of recent events, the Board of Governors for Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry has unanimously elected to indefinitely suspend all academic pursuits for this matriculating year. No students will be permitted onto school premises until certain issues have been resolved. Sincerely, Headmistress Minerva McGonagall._"

She stared blankly at the paper, rereading the same phrase several times without looking up. It didn't matter, of course, not to her—not to any of them. But there was something meaningful in knowing it was there, waiting for them to return. That the halls were alive and full of students, that they weren't cold and dark and empty and hopeless. Too many places in the wizarding world were, it seemed, nowadays.

"Guess we won't miss anything, eh?" said Ron, optimistically, but his encouraging look quickly faded when he locked gazes with Hermione.

"It's gone," she said in a small voice. "He took it."

"It's not gone," said Harry, probably with more fierceness than he intended, for Hermione almost started at his sudden outburst. "He has _not_ taken it. Not really. That's what counts." He seemed satisfied in this knowledge, his eyes burning with a restrained heat. Ron nodded supportively, and said something else to Harry, but Hermione wasn't listening.

"I have to go finish packing," she said in a slightly strained voice, standing up.

"Are you OK?" asked Ron, a look of quizzical concern on his freckled face. "You look a bit…bothered."

"Yes," she forced a smile. "I'm just dreading Fluer's wedding vows. Ginny said she wrote them herself and they're dreadful."

Ron winced. "Urg…"

She grabbed her not entirely empty envelope, and, still clutching the letter in a fist, hurried out of the room as quickly as possible without seeming suspiciously upset.

000

"_I want you to keep this, Ms. Granger. Merlin knows you deserve it, and I can only hope that it will be here waiting for you when you return. In times like these we all do as we must, and I believe you are called to do very great things indeed. I know that you have answered that call at great personal cost, but the bonds of friendship are often the most complicated and rewarding connections we make in our lives, and I am quite certain that you do not take such commitments lightly. Please believe me when I tell you that you are one of the finest students I have had the pleasure of instructing in some fifty odd years of teaching, and I do not give such compliments lightly. Good luck to you, Ms. Granger, in all of your pursuits. Yours sincerely, Minerva McGonagall."_

The second letter was folded neatly behind the first letter, both signed neatly by the school's acting Headmistress. Sitting cross-legged on the floor of her bedroom and leaning on her trunk, she carefully set both letters down on her leg. The envelope was empty now, except for the hefty weight of something stiff and uneven stuck in one of the corners. She tipped the envelope into her palm, and something shiny and golden spun in the air and landed in her hand, glinting in the shafts of early morning sunlight that were cascading through the window.

She turned it slowly in her hand, feeling its cool weight, watching it glitter in the light, until she could read the lettering. A part of her already knew what it said, but her heart skipped a beat anyway—

"_Head Girl." _

It was practically worthless, an empty title to go with an empty building, and yet…it was absolutely everything. She managed a tiny, sorrowful smile, blinking furiously to disguise her own silly sentimentality from the empty room…

"How tragic—the school closes and you have no way to indulge your desire to boss people around. Surprisingly selfish of you, Granger." Malfoy leaned casually against the doorframe, arms folded. He was often in that position, she noticed—defensive—though he leered superiorly, as if nothing bothered him at all.

"As if _you're_ a remotely appropriate person to lecture me on the evils of indulging in selfishness," she snapped back, wiping her eyes sourly with her shirt cuff. "You don't know anything about me."

"You keep saying that." He shifted, tilting his head in such a way that the shafts of warm sunlight reflected in faint pools around his lean frame. He was so pale he seemed to mirror the world around him, she noticed. In the daytime, his light complexion and white blond hair seemed as if they had been engraved out of gold, but at night he shone silver. Silver and cold. "You're upset that you've lost another bit of territory to the Dark Lord."

She frowned. "Harry said—" she began defiantly.

"Bullocks on what Potter said," Malfoy interrupted her sharply, silvery-grey eyes flashing. "You know the truth. He doesn't have to invade the school with Dementors or Death Eaters. He doesn't even have to burn it to the ground to destroy it utterly. It's already gone. That school is his now. So is half the wizarding world, by those standards. He's in every deserted street and alley in Hogsmeade, in Diagon Alley—everywhere. As long as people are afraid of him, he'll keep winning. No one has a chance. And you know it. Potter doesn't see things that way. He doesn't understand like you do."

She stared at him for a moment, utterly shocked by his insight, and horrified at its similarity to the tiny, cynical voice in the back of her own mind. She tightened her fist around the badge in her hand, closing her eyes. "So you're not?" she asked finally.

"Not what?"

"You're not afraid of him," she clarified, opening her eyes and fixing her gaze upon his slim frame. "Is that why you're willing to fight him?"

"I never said that," he said, his eyes narrowing. "You would have to be a fool not to fear the Dark Lord. I think people are right to cower in their homes, but it only delays the inevitable."

"You think defeat is inevitable?" She set the badge down on her trunk with a soft click.

"I thought you must as well," he said, looking almost puzzled in his bitterness. "Surely you can see it." Able to see so clearly, and yet blind at the same time. It wasn't victory that was important in these situations—at least not to her.

"If you believe defeat is inevitable," she pushed the lid of her trunk closed and used the surface to pull herself up off the floor, "then what are you doing here with us?"

"Surviving," he said in a flat voice, shrugging with an air so casual it suggested it had been forced. "I'm not fighting to win, Granger. I'm here because I have no choice. So bullocks to Potter and his grand plan, I'm sure he'll die believing in whatever cause tickles his fancy."

"You _always_ have a choice," she said firmly, refusing to break the eye contact that spanned the air between them with an almost electric force.

He stared at her for a long moment, eyes critical, and still narrowed, as if he regarded her words with the utmost suspicion. Perhaps words, which he was so artful at manipulating, were the most treacherous things of all to him, and believing in anything that sounded compelling was a sure way to end up in the worst possible of situations.

And then, without another word, he disappeared out of the doorframe and down the corridor, having never actually stepped into the room.

000

Draco stole quickly down the hall, suddenly wanting to distance himself from Granger as quickly as possible. (Not that it was the first time he had such an impulse.)

His own Hogwarts letter was tucked hastily within his pocket. He had not actually bothered to open it, entirely unsure as to what he'd find inside—quite possibly some sort of nasty hex. He'd read Weasley's letter over his shoulder, and was satisfied enough with that. Weasley didn't even notice him looking, which filled Draco with an intense desire to swindle him at some sort of card game—maybe Goblin Poker. Not that Weasley had enough money to make him worth swindling...

He hurried into his own room and slammed the door, hopefully right in the face of Granger and her stupid, intuitive advice.

000

"We're going to be late," said Potter, in a concerned voice.

"How can we be late?" asked Weasley. "I don't recall us ever giving them an estimate as to when we'd arrive."

"You know…that's a very good point," Potter said conciliatorily. "Stealthy."

"Do you think Hermione needs help packing her things?" asked Weasley. "She's been up there for awhile."

Draco sat on an armchair, watching them and feeling extremely bored, head resting on his knuckles. Probably modeling that stupid badge in the mirror, he though to himself, sneering idly. The thought of walking in on her engaged in any sort of narcissistic activity was rather amusing to him, particularly because of all the new and exciting ways he could mock her as a follow up, and he set off up the stairs without a word to Potter and Weasely.

They were busily engaged in a debate as to whether or not knocking on the door would violate some kind of girly boundary, mostly because the stairs wouldn't turn into a slide on knock them on their arses the minute they tried to walk up to her door. They actually had to make the judgment based on their own decision making skills—horror of horrors.

Draco thought they were doomed in all instances, if that was the case. He also thought idly that the stairs to the girls' dormitory in the Slytherin dormitories made no such effort to keep boys out. If there was one thing Salazar Slytherin was in favor of, it seemed, it was the conception of pureblooded children.

Draco ignored Potter and Weasley, as he went up the stairs, and they ignored him. This was part of the silent contract they seemed to have made when they decided to "trust" or at least tolerate each other. It was rather boring sometimes, but if he was really bored and wanted to torment them for his own amusement—it wasn't as if the option was closed. They were within hearing distance of his mouth, after all.

He made his way down the hall, knocking on Granger's door. No one answered.

"Still admiring that stupid badge?" he smirked. He pushed lightly on the door, and it swung open with a rather vocal creak. "Granger?" he said questioningly.

He stepped inside, his eyes sweeping the room, until he spotted her sitting on the bed, knees pulled glumly up to her chin. Her head snapped towards him, but she looked rather cross when she recognized him.

"Oh," she said in voice that was tired and strained but not entirely disdainful. "It's _you_."

"You flatter me," he said dryly. "_Try_ to contain you excitement."

Her eyes were red and swollen. She looked as though she had been crying. "What do you want?"

"The rest of your merry little band is downstairs, growing rather restless," he informed her evenly. "Are you actually going to leave, or are you going to sit here all weekend? Because honestly—I sort of had my hopes up that I would be rid of all of you for awhile." He smiled charmingly.

"Oh…" she looked around the room, probably for a clock. "Did they send you up here? Oh, bother…"

"No," he said, looking around idly. "I just came." He ignored the sudden, rather perplexed look on her face. "So what have you been doing up here?" he inquired. "I thought you might have spent the past few hours admiring your reflection in that badge…" He smirked. After all, that was what he had done with his first Prefect badge. He was so enamored he almost forgot to go down for supper.

A pang of sorrow seemed to cross her face as he mentioned the badge, and she turned away from him, gazing out the window and partially hiding her face.

"Is this about school?" he asked finally. There was a terrible battle going on inside of Draco. Part of him, naturally, wanted to laugh in her face, and the other part wanted to stop looking like a giant had just eaten her pet cat. But—he had promised to be civil towards her, and civility probably meant that he should not laugh in her face while she was in no state to tell him off, however amusing it might be.

She paused for a moment, sinking down further behind her knees, and drawing her shoulders closer to her face. "Yes," she said in an even voice, not looking at him. He didn't say anything. "Aren't you going to tell me everything is going to be alright?" she asked softly, the barest hint of bitterness whispering at the edge of her words. "That we'll all go back someday, together, and everything will be fine?"

"No," he said lightly, shrugging. "That would probably be a lie."

"It might not be." She looked at him, then looked away again. "That's what Harry or Ron would say."

"I think you'll find that I am neither Potter nor Weasley," he said, wrinkling his nose in disgust. "And what an unflattering comparison."

"Do you have some aversion to lying that we're all unaware of?" she asked him, her voice still tired. She quirked an eyebrow at him.

"I don't lie," he informed her arrogantly. "Though I do on occasion…_omit_ certain things."

"Why not?"

"I should think that was obvious," he grinned, self-satisfied and wicked. "Why bother lying? The truth is so much _nastier_."

"Or what you believe to be true," she said, more to herself, it seemed, than him.

"It's a highly functional system when you're always right," he pointed out imperiously.

Her lip quirked for an instant, and something amused flashed briefly in her eyes, but she didn't share whatever she had intended to say. Probably something quite cheeky. Draco found himself feeling rather cheated. Bickering with Granger was sort of… entertaining… you know… sometimes… She looked away, frowning.

"Why are you still here?"

He didn't answer her. He really wasn't entirely sure he owed her an answer. That was far more than he ever promised. "Why are you? _I'm_ not the one who's running late."

"That was not an answer," she pointed out.

"Why do you keep doing that?" He leapt to his feet suddenly wanting to be as far away as possible from her and those damn eyes staring so calmly at him. "Why do you always have to know _everything_? It's bloody unhealthy." He paced in a quick circle around the room, throwing up his hand so he wouldn't have to look at her placid, tearstained face. "Here you are—sitting here—and—" He made an exasperated noise. He could still feel her eyes boring into him. He caught sight of the door on one of his rotations about the room, and practically lunged towards it. "—I'm leaving," he said in the same sputtering breath.

"You think that you owe me something, but you just don't know what. You want things to be even between us again so you can stop thinking about it." She spoke softly and he froze on his trajectory towards the door. "Some sort of conciliatory form of honor that you've fallen back on, because of all the things you've ever been taught, it's the only thing you have left right now."

He was able to turn, slowly, and look at her, because her gaze was turned away, staring out the window into the soft, warm light of the late afternoon.

"I'm upset, and you think if you can fix that you don't have to worry about your obligations in this whole ridiculous situation anymore, because I did the same for you in that cave. The only difference is…you were trying to do it without lying to me…" She gave a small, bitter smile. "Maybe that's why you aren't succeeding."

Lying to him? Of course. Why not? His eyes were narrowed and calculating again. "If you know already," he said, his voice as taunt as a plucked string, "then why bother asking?"

She hugged her knees toward her chest, staring glumly at the bed spread. "It's not my place to know everything," she admitted quietly. "Besides…it could have been any number of possibilities. It didn't fit at first…"

"Oh?" he said, though gritted teeth. That bitch! He hated her, he remembered now… "And _why_ is that?"

"Because when I try to think of you as a person…motivated by, say—an iota of human empathy—it's rather hard to make sense of things…" she said. She stared down, with something that could have been shame, but her eyes flicked up towards him for an instant.

He could see in her face that this was her attempting to be honest with him, but in that instant, he was too angry to care. He had been taught to hide his anger, to push it away into something constructive—like tormenting Longbottom—but here he had nothing to channel it into. It occurred to him that it had been a very long time, maybe most of his life, since he had felt strongly anything that wasn't anger or fear or jealousy, and he realized just now that he had been lacking those feelings—only slightly— until this instant.

He turned and stalked out of the room, furious, and slammed the door with a resounding bang that rattled every doorknob in the hallway.

000

"Do you need any help with that?" asked Harry, as Hermione trotted down the stairs, a few nights clothes and a bridesmaid gown stuffed into her school bag and slung hastily over her shoulder.

"No, I'm alright," she said evenly. The bag could fit quite a lot of things in it, and rather easily. She had put an Internal Expansion Charm on it, following the several occurrences of it bursting and its contents spilling out all over the corridor during third year. She reached the bottom of the stairs and paused. "Are we Flooing in?"

"Yeah," said Ron. "Ready?"

"Yes," she said. "Sorry it took so long…I was reading…and I got distracted…"

"Typical Hermione," said Harry, grinning at her. She gave him a weak smile in return.

They walked over towards the fireplace. Extending her hand slowly, she picked up a quantity of Floo powder from the jar by the mantle and slowly enclosed it in her fist, because she was perfectly capable of picking it up herself, just like she picked herself off the bed upstairs and forced herself to stop being silly and come downstairs. And she did it all by herself and without encouragement, because when you know the truth about almost everything it's very easy to debate things without anyone else's opinion, restating what you've already considered. And she knew that it was sometimes lonely not to need anyone like that, but it had worked fine before, and it wasn't as if she wasn't close her to friends—she loved them fiercely—it was merely the nagging idea of connecting to someone who, though he seemed to understand what no one else she knew quite could, still had so much growing up to do. It was really the problem of comprehending everything about certain important matters except for your own feelings.

And then, perfectly autonomously, she threw the Floo into the fireplace and called out the name of the place that had become like a second (or even first) home to her over the years, and in a flare of green, she was gone.

"The Burrow!"

000

**AN:** I know I promised that this chapter would contain many more things, but I'm really busy with school stuff and I wanted to get something posted before you all think I've dropped dead. I intended for it to be MUCH longer, and take place at the Burrow…but…er…

Think of this as a two part chapter, OK? Yeah…all the stuff I promised will pop up next time! The wedding, Ginny, the Weasleys, Fluer's weird family, Lupin, Tonks and all that good stuff coming up next, I promise. Yay!

PS: Sorry to leave you on that angsty note, lol.


	21. Til Death Do Us Part

_The wind blew all my wedding-day, _

_And my wedding-night was the night of the high wind... .- Philip Larkin_

The Burrow was all bustle and noise when Hermione climbed out of the fireplace, brushing herself off and immediately smiling despite her previous air of melancholy. It was difficult to be sad in that place. The house was always full of noise and laughter and constant motion. The shafts of sunlight that streamed through the windows illuminated the dust in the house—always swirling, never settling.

Several people, most of them blonde, were already in the room. They gazed at Hermione with a look of casual disinterest before going back to their previous activities, most of which seemed to involve lace and parchment.

"Hermione!" Ginny rounded a corner and appeared in the hall, grinning, her red hair pulled into a messy bun at the nape of her neck. She practically flung herself forward and wrapped her in a hug that was almost as smothering as her mother's.

"Hullo, Ginny," Hermione wheezed. Ginny released her as Harry and Ron tumbled into the room.

"It smells weird in here," said Ron, titling his head back and wrinkling his nose slightly.

"Hydrangeas," said Ginny, matter-of-factly. "And irises. And orchids. Also lilies, poppies, and five different varieties of roses." They stared at her. "Mum's got them growing everywhere. Vases, sinks—actually there's a lovely bed of white tea roses growing all over your bed, Ron— maybe we ought to move those…" she said thoughtfully.

Ron looked very cross at this.

"Oh, don't be such a baby," scoffed Ginny. "It smelled _terrible_ in there you know. I've been cleaning all day. I've even been using magic, and Mum hasn't said a word to me about it. Things are absolutely mad around here. The wedding is only a day away." There was a smudge of dirt on her freckled cheek. "Why don't you go clean it up yourself? But don't muss the roses, Mum'll have kittens."

Grumbling to himself, Ron slouched towards the door.

"Am I staying in your room again?" asked Hermione.

"Yes. So is Fleur's little sister," Ginny looked annoyed. "She's not all that bad, really, but seeing the two of them together all the time, and all the rest of that family—it's like a blonde _nightmare_, around here, honestly."

Hermione giggled. Ginny's eyes traveled to the figure hiding behind Hermione, Harry, who was toeing the ground with a somewhat nervous expression on his face. She stared at him for a moment, in silence, while a smile tugged at the corners of her lips.

"Hi, Harry," she said pointedly, staring at him.

"Hi, Gin," said Harry, turning faintly pink. He looked completely uncertain of what to do, and barring any definite course of action, remained stiffly in place.

"Oh, come here, you great silly git," said Ginny exasperatedly, wrapping him in a big hug. Harry, who looked tremendously relieved, returned the favor. "Come on," she said releasing Harry but keeping a grip on his hand. "Let's go help Ron turn his room back into a pig sty." She tugged him towards the stairs, and Hermione, grinning, followed.

000

Draco stared at the clock. He was quite certain, if the clock had eyes, it would be staring back at him with equal intensity.

He hoped for the opportunity to unwind, perhaps gather his thoughts, but as he wandered the twisting corridors of his mind he quickly discovered there were very few thoughts that he was willing to engage more directly. Darkness prowled the edges of his mind, and now that everything around him was dust and silence there was very little to keep it at bay.

_Tick. Tick. Tock…_

_Five seconds until 6 o'clock…_

He sighed, and slumped over, tapping his fingertips on the arm of his chair.

_Four seconds until 6 o'clock…_

He glanced over at the books that Hermione had given him. He had read most of them already. Now that she was gone there was no one to replenish the supply. He thought that would be a relief, but instead he felt oddly…disappointed.

_Three seconds until 6 o'clock…_

He could leave. He could walk out of the house and burn it to the ground. No one would stop him. He would never look back. He could find the Horcrux Granger had stashed in the house and present it before the Dark Lord's throne—he would be hailed as a hero, no more groveling and running, constantly terrified for his life. He could have everything he ever wanted.

_Two seconds until 6 o'clock…_

What did he want really? He had gone so far in both directions it was very hard to find his way back to his own desires. Lately everything had been "Do or die," which he did not appreciate at all. When it came to orders, he much preferred instructions such as—"you can do whatever you want!" or "would you like a large sack of galleons?"

_One second until 6 o'clock…_

It was so easy to lose everything, wasn't it? Everything he had wanted, everything he had dreamed of having since he was born into his gilded life, was gone. He could never get it back.

And he wasn't even sure if it was worth anything to possess.

The clock began chiming cheerfully, a loud and insufferable ringing that toned out the notes to "A Cauldron Full of Hot, Strong Love," which was in Draco's opinion, one of the most obnoxious bits of noise that had ever been released into the atmosphere.

He cringed. It was going to be a long day.

000

The Weasleys' house wasn't large by any means, but the necessity of weaving to and fro through dense crowds of busy blonde and red-headed people made the journey from the fire place to the stairs a very time consuming process. After much pushing, squeezing, and mumbled apologies to harried looking people, Ginny, Ron, Harry, and Hermione stumbled into the short, mercifully empty hallway which contained the twisted staircase leading the upstairs bedrooms.

There was a sudden tittering sound from somewhere behind Hermione. It sounded like a crowd of tiny songbirds, in the distance. She paused curiously, quirking her head. Ginny, who had previous looked relieved, froze, a spasm of terror flitting across her face. Harry stopped short, nearly crashing into her. Hermione was quite sure this would have caused another furious bout of blushing. He seemed strangely uncomfortable around her for the first time since the beginning of sixth year. They were in an odd place now, she supposed…wanting to be together but unable to because of Harry—being Harry. That had sort of been their problem in the time leading up to their relationship.

"Oh, no," whispered Ginny in terror. "They're back…"

"Who—" began Hermione, but she was cut off as a large group of blond girls swooped into the hallway, swaths of clothing and white-blonde hair flowing around them in golden trails.

"Oh, who 'eez this?" crooned one of them. They swarmed around Harry, draping hair, clothes, and arms around him at all angles. Harry, who was now having various parts of his face and chest stroked suggestively by perfectly manicured nails, looked completely paralyzed. He made a little "eek" sound and stared beseechingly at Ginny.

" 'E 'eez so 'andsome!"

"Are you a membeer of ze Weasleys?"

"Of course not! Tu es idiote, ses cheveuex, sont noirs."

"Ah, oui…Noirs comme la nuit…magnifique!"

"Je m'appelle Danielle, et toi? What 'eez your name?"

"Harry, meet Fleur's cousins. Angelique, Annabelle, Jacquelle, Evelien, Minjonet, Danielle, Camille, and Sylvie," Ginny offered dryly. She gestured vaguely at the girls, who all looked rather identical, in Hermione's opinion, except for a slight difference in height. "Fleur's cousins, meet Harry Potter." She gestured at Harry, looking rather annoyed, as a chorus of excited squeals resounded on the hall.

"Oui. Le garçon dont Fleur a parlé!"

"Oui! C'est lui! It 'eez him!"

"Oh come off it already," said Ginny crossly. She gave a tug at Harry's hand but was unable to budge him from he pile of girls. She huffed impatiently, walked to the other end of the huddled, squeaking mass, reached out, and yanked a single golden hair out of one of the girl's heads.

The girl cried out shrilly and whirled around, glaring at Ginny and snarling in a way that Hermione was quite sure was anatomically impossible for most humans.

"I'm _so_ sorry," said Ginny, her voice dripping with false sweetness. "It was _grey_."

"I do _not_ 'AVE ze _GREY 'AIRS!_" responded the girl violently.

"Don't worry," said Hermione, joining in helpfully. "I'm sure it's just the stress of the wedding setting in." She and Ginny both smiled charmingly at them. For a moment, the girls' stared at each other, then at Hermione and Ginny, then at the shell-shocked Harry, then began tittering loudly.

"J'ai besoin d'un miroir! MAINTENANT! Where 'eez the mirror?"

"Où est-il? OU!"

"Et moi? ET MOI?"

"Look at my 'ead! REGARDEZ MA TETE!"

As quickly as the crowd had appeared, it disappeared in a flurry of squabbling and a desperate search for reflective surfaces.

"Merlin's ghost," moaned Ginny. "I can't believe the rest of my life is going to contain _THEM_."

"They seemed nice to me," offered Ron sincerely.

"They're _terrifying_," said Harry, with equal earnestness.

"Honestly Harry," said Hermione. "You're going to face down the most evil, powerful wizard in the world and you can't handle a bunch of teenage girls?"

"I don't think Voldemort's ever tried to unzip his trousers," said Ginny, staring at Harry's belt buckle with a quirked eyebrow. "Or succeeded, for that matter."

"GAAHH!" yelled Harry, looking down. Ron jumped forward to clap his hand over Ginny's eyes, as Harry hastily corrected the damage that had been wreaked upon his propriety.

"Oh, _please_, Ron" said Ginny. "It's not like it's anything I haven't—"

"If you finish that sentence," said Ron firmly. "I will drown my self in the duck pond."

There was a thump as Harry banged his head against the wall in frustration.

"Oh, yeah," said Ron, rolling his eyes, "you're life's a _real_ downer…" Ginny slapped Ron's hand away and whirled around, walking towards the stairs.

"Let's just get going, already," she sighed. She threw Harry a brief backwards glance, giggling as he smiled sheepishly. They headed towards the stairs. Ron ambled after them, grumbling under his breath. Hermione smiled, following behind Ron.

"I didn't know you had a duck pond," she said.

000

Draco, meanwhile, was busily rooting through Weasley's stuff. He had opted to use a large, ornate iron fire-poker rather than touch Weasley's stuff directly, or risk contaminating his wand. He did, of course, pause intermittently to ponder why he would lower himself into looking at Weasley's stuff at all, but he was extremely bored and had already made tall, geometric piles out of books, pillows, and almost everything else he could get his hands on. Stacking random things got boring very quickly. Draco felt himself becoming rather nostalgic for the television in the Grangers' living room.

The Trio had left some of their possessions in the upstairs bedrooms, apparently considering Grimmauld Place to be their new home, at least for now.

So far, he hadn't found anything interesting. Weasley had a few old school books, some ratty sweaters, and (buried at the very, very bottom) the rattiest stuffed bear that Draco had ever seen. _Respectable_ wizarding children played with stuffed unicorns when they were infants. Or maybe Weasley bought it at a junk sale last week and smothered it creepy affection to fill the void in his useless life—who knew?

And he called _Draco_ a little girl.

Ponce.

Weasley's stuff was boring too. So far he had learned that Weasley led a dull life, and that he was weird. Draco already knew that, and that was why he disliked him. That, and the fact that he was a gangly, speckled, blood-traitor.

Draco pulled the stuffed bear out of the trunk (using magic of course—who would touch that thing?) and hid it in the back of the closet, snickering at his own maniacal genius. He hoped he would be around to laugh when Weasley discovered it was missing and squealed like a little girl. Ha!

Merlin, his life was _sad_ right now.

He went off to explore some more.

000

"Look at this," said Ginny, opening her closet and ruffling through it.

"What is it?" asked Hermione. She tucked her bag into the corner of the room, next to the dresser, and sat down on the corner of Ginny's bed.

"My _doom_," said Ginny gloomily. She pulled a dress out of the closet and held it against her body, twirling around to show it to Hermione.

"Your _bridesmaid_ dress," said Hermione, smiling. She walked over and began examining the dress, lifting up the skirt and watching it flutter back to the ground when she let it go. "It's not so bad, really." It was a simple, straight gown with thin straps at the top and a sheer, laced robe covering.

"Look at the _color_," said Ginny, wrinkling her nose. It was a deep coral hue, a soft blend of pink and orange. "It looks great if you are PALE and BLOND. I, on the other hand, look hideous. I think she picked the color that clashed with my hair the _most_ on purpose."

Hermione muted a smile.

Ginny twirled dramatically, still clutching the dress to her chest. "Oh no," she said, with an overdramatic French accent. "Thees 'eez no good! It might not look 'orrible with my future sister-een-law's 'air! I need a color that weel make all red 'eads weesh they were dead!"

Hermione giggled. "I suppose it does seem a bit conspiratory. I'm sure that color looks lovely if you are blonde…"

"Exactly," said Ginny fiercely. "Stupid hideous thing…" She stuffed it savagely back into the closet. "Bill is going to throw himself out of a window after a year with her, mark my words."

"How _is_ Bill?" asked Hermione. "I haven't seen much of him since we all…erm…left school."

"He's fine." Ginny sat down on the floor in front of the closet, propping her back up against the closet door, an almost distant look in her eyes. "He's happy. He's really happy. And she—she really stuck by him, didn't she?" She shook her head. "That night in the hospital—Mum _honestly_ thought she was going to leave him, and she stuck right by him." Ginny flicked her fingers, staring at the floor. "Would I be a really terrible person if said I kind of…just a little bit…hoped she _would_ leave?"

"No," said Hermione. "Just an honest one."

"I guess you never really know what's in someone's heart…"

"And sometimes you don't want too," muttered Hermione.

"Hmm?" said Ginny, raising an eyebrow. "Is Hermione Granger having _heart_ problems?"

"My cardiovascular health is impeccable, thank you very much," said Hermione, pinking slightly and looking pointedly at the wall opposite Ginny.

"Ha!" yelled Ginny, springing up and pouncing, cat-like, onto the bed next to her. "Your big words won't save you this time. You have _boy_ troubles. Now _spill_." She tapped her fingers together and smiled in a gesture that made her look suspiciously like one of the villains in the James Bond movies Hermione's cousins had forced her to watch.

"I…" began Hermione, rolling her eyes away.

"SPILL!"

"Ok, ok…" She bit her lip. "What do you think it means—exactly—when a guy kisses you—" Ginny's eyes widened, a maniacal grin on her face. "—urrr hand. Your hand. It's very polite." She stood up. "So, what's for dinner?"

Ginny grabbed her shirt and pulled back down into a sitting position. "You're not getting off that easily." Hermione sighed. Ginny folded her hands angelically and spoke without looking at her.

"I was just wondering…you know... Because when a guy kisses you, it can be complicated. Especially if he was previously in a relationship with one of your closest friends, and you know that certain _bounds_ you might cross over…especially if that relationship could be resumed at some point in the future—"

"It's not Harry," said Hermione flatly, cutting her off.

"Oh…" Ginny straightened up, looking quite pleased. "Well, it can also be really complicated when someone who you've considered to be a platonic friend for so many years unexpectedly wants to—"

"It's not Ron."

Ginny looked perplexed, and was silent for a moment.

"They aren't the _only_ men in my life!" she said defensively.

"Oh, no!" said Ginny, smiling wanly. "Of course not." Hermione looked at her crossly. There was a lull in the conversation. "So…who is it?"

"Krum?"

"No."

"Neville?"

"NO."

Ginny paused to think. Hermione stood up and threw her hands into the air in exasperation. "I'm going downstairs to find the only two men in my life," she said sourly, and stalked towards the door.

"Seamus?"

"_NO!_ There is no man! It was a brief but tragically vivid hallucination. Forget it. I'm becoming a nun!"

"Aww, come on, Hermione!" Ginny tagged after her. "What's a '_nun' _? Come on, pleeeeeease?"

000

"_A cauldron full of hot, strong love,_

_Tell me darling, did I brew enough?_

_We'll drink it together, under the stars tonight,_

_Kiss me sweetly in the soft moonlight…"_

_Kill me…_though Draco, shaking his head. _Just kill me._

Enough was enough, he decided. That clock needed to bugger off, right now. One more hour of dinging and idiotic lyrics and something was going to get destroyed. He was opting for it not to be his sanity.

"_Quietum_," he commanded, pointing his wand at the clock.

"_I love you sweetheart, yes I do,_

_I love you so much woo woo woo,_

"_Quietum_!" he said again, growing more irritated with each passing second.

_I brewed a cauldron full of love, it's true,_

_A cauldron full of hot, strong love, for you…"_

"_QUIETUM!_" he yelled furiously, leaping to his feet and waving his wand hysterically. "_QUIETUM! QUIETUM! _Shut up you bloody thing!_ QUIETUM!_"

"Bloody—hell—" Draco moved backwards to sit down, throwing himself furiously back into his chair. He then found himself yelping in surprise as the chair toppled backwards in a rather impressive somersault, taking him with it in an impressive aerial back flip.

"ARG!" He let out a stream of obscenities and, from his position upside down and on his head, he blasted the chair across the room. He leapt to his feet, panting and still swearing hysterically. He stalked over to the splintered, smoldering remains of the armchair, gave them a savage kick, and blasted them again with his wand, just for having the gall to dump him, _Draco Malfoy_, on the floor in such an undignified manner.

He then realized he had destroyed the surface he was sitting on, and still reeling on the principle of the thing, sat down forcefully on the floor where his chair used to be. He crossed his arms and glared despairingly at the clock, which still had not shut up.

"_Oh come and stir my cauldron,_

_And if you do it right,_

_I'll boil you up some hot, strong love,_

_To keep you warm tonight…"_

"SHUT UP!"

000

Hermione awoke suddenly the next morning to a silent house and the pale light of the predawn. She stared at the ceiling, motionless, for several minutes before slipping gently out of the bed. It was a little more difficult than she had anticipated, as Fleur's little sister had rolled down to the foot of the bed and curled herself tightly around Hermione's ankle like a large blond cat.

It seemed that there were people in the house at all hours of the day and night, and Hermione was pleased to have found a time where she seemed to be relatively isolated. She moved unencumbered through the hallway and found herself in the kitchen, and finally, no longer alone.

There was a woman with long blond hair sitting at the table, tapping a quill onto a piece of paper. She had apparently been there for awhile, as the tiny dots she was making had leaked together into a large black blot the size of a silver sickle.

"Fleur?" asked Hermione in surprise, walking around the table and sitting down across from her. "What are you doing up so early?"

"Up?" She laughed, tossing her hair tiredly over her shoulder. "Goodnees—I 'ave not gone to bed at all." She laid her quill down across the paper and sighed.

"Why not?" Hermione looked quizzically at her tired face. "What have you been up to?" She tilted her head towards the paper on the table.

Fleur looked bewildered for a moment, then looked down. "Oh, yes. Theese. I am workeeng on my vows."

"It must be difficult," said Hermione sympathetically. "Are you…writing them in English or French? I can try to help you if you'd like, but my French is a little rusty."

Fleur waved a perfectly manicured hand morosely in the air. "Francais, Eenglish, there is no difference. I cannot find the words, no matter 'ow many languageez I learn."

"Well…" said Hermione. "Statistically speaking, there are more words in the English language than the French language, so you could try writing in English," she offered.

"Quoi?" said Fleur in confusion.

"The number of words in English has grown from 50,000 to 60,000 words in Old English to about a million today," she elaborated. "Whereas the French language has topped out at approximately 100,000—"

"Ah—ah, oui," Fleur cut her off abruptly. "That eez very…nice, 'Ermione. merci..."

"You just don't know what to say, is that it?"

"I 'ave….much that I want to say. So much…I still do not know…I do not 'ave the words…"

Ah… "I think I understand." In that case, there wasn't a lot she could do. Of course she could probably write something beautiful and poignant for her—but it would be unethical, and insincere. Bill wasn't her fiancé—she wasn't marrying him…today, actually.

"Ooo…why deed I offeer to write my own vows?" she said despairingly. "I am going to sound leeke such a fool! Ehveryone will theenk I am just a bubble-headed blonde idiot!" She pushed the paper away.

"No…" Hermione argued, trying her best to sound sincere. "Why would anyone think that…?" She looked at the ceiling. "Errm…can I see what you've written so far?"

Fleur sniffed delicately and pushed the paper the rest of the way towards Hermione. Hermione leaned over and began to read.

"_Bill, when I met you, you were so handsome, and I knew that I wanted to kiss you. You are like my handsome prince, thank you for teaching me English. And even though your face has been chewed up by a vicious mad dog man, I love you." _

Hermione stared at the parchment. She was trying to smile, but the expression on her face must have been very different from the expression she intended, because Fleur let out a wail. "Eet is 'orrible, eesn't eet?" She threw up her hands. "That eez eet! I cannot get married tomorrow!"

"Today," Hermione offered gently.

"_Today_? Mon Deiu!" Fleur buried her face in her hands and bent over the table. She suddenly sat straight up, her eyes wide. "MY 'AIR! 'OW EEZ MY 'AIR?" She cried, as her hair flew in several directions.

"Your hair looks fine to me," said Hermione, "though I don't know if I'm the right person to ask. I think most people think my hair is in a permanent state of 'bad day' …"

Fleur gave her the same type of obviously skeptical look Hermione was sure she had given to Fleur earlier. "No…" said Fleur slowly, looking absently at the ceiling. "No one would theenk that…" Hermione sighed.

" 'Ermione…" she said. "You—are good weeth the—weeth the words. Will you 'elp me?"

"Oh, Fleur…" she said slowly. "I can try…but they're _your_ vows. I think they have to come from—from your heart. Not from my mouth. Besides, that would be really weird."

Fleur looked extremely unhappy, her lower lip trembling dangerously. _I am such a sap…_thought Hermione. She picked up the abandoned quill and poised it over the parchment. "Forget the wedding, forget everyone, all the family and the flowers and…" Hermione looked around. "Those weird shiny things that are clinging to the rafters everywhere…"

"Those are banners made weeth fairy dust," explained Fleur. "For luck. Eet eez an old tradeetion of my family."

"Right," Hermione continued. "Forget all that. This is just about you—and Bill. If you could tell him anything at all, what would you say?"

Fleur thought for a moment. "Sometimes—when we are making love—"

"_OK!_" Hermione interrupted loudly. "Remember the people that will be there—a little bit—"

"I…would tell heem that I love heem…no matter what 'ee looks like. 'Ee 'as always been kind to me— 'ee never treated me like I was an eediot…" She sighed again. "That sounds so silly…"

"No it doesn't," she said, very honestly. "Here…I think we can work with that…"

000

_War is thus divine in itself, since it is a law of the world. War is divine through its consequences of a supernatural nature which are as much general as particular..._Draco thought, recalling something from the books Hermione had given him.

_War is divine in the mysterious glory that surrounds it and in the no less inexplicable attraction that draws us to it...War is divine by the manner in which it breaks out._

Robert Graves had said, '_War was return of earth to ugly earth, War was foundering of sublimities, Extinction of each happy art and faith, By which the world had still kept head in air.' _

Draco rounded on his enemy, his fists clenched, white and furious, and his eyes narrowed into cold silver slits. He held himself proudly and unyieldingly upright, going into battle straight backed and tall, the way his family had gone to face their destinies for centuries.

"This is it clock. This is the end. This will be…our final battle."

He raised his wand.

"_I love you sweetheart, yes I do…"_

"_Quietum!"_

"_I love you so much woo woo woo…"_

"_QUIETUM! Quietum,_ you sick bastard! Why are you doing this too me?"

"_I brewed a cauldron full of love, it's true…"_

"DID THE DARK LORD SEND YOU? HE DIDDIDN'T HE? HE'S TRYING TO BREAK ME DOWN, ISN'T HE? WELL IT WON'T WORK!"

"_A cauldron full of hot, strong love, for you…"_

When he looked back on the carnage several hours later, Draco still wasn't exactly sure what had happened. Something had just snapped inside his head.

"_REDUCTUS INCENDIUM!"_

A fireball the size of a Quaffle rocketed into the clock. Through the clock, actually. And through the wall. Where…the wall used to be, and there was now a huge gaping hole.

Parts of the shattered clock were scattered all around the room. Also, in the room next to the room the clock used to be in, probably attributed to the window size hole between the two rooms.

Draco surveyed the massacre.

"Oh…" he said. "Bugger..."

000

"_I, Bill, take you, Fleur, to be my friend, my lover, the mother of my children and my wife…"_

They were five minutes into the ceremony, and Mrs. Weasley was already dabbing her eyes with a worn, lacy handkerchief.

"_I will be yours in times of plenty and in times of want, in times of sickness and in times of health, in times of joy and in times of sorrow, in times of failure…and in times of triumph…"_

Hermione looked around from her vantage point in the front row. The sight of hundreds of faces sitting in rows in the afternoon sun had an eerie familiarity to it, but also possessed the comforting difference of happiness and hope in the air, instead of a heavy pall of grief.

"…_in times of big angry werewolves who chew on peoples' faces…"_

Bill grinned. This got a few chuckles from the crowd, and a sudden tittering of French voices who seemed to take renewed interest in having the vows translated into their native tongue.

"_I will trust you and respect you, laugh with you and cry with you, loving you faithfully through good times and bad, regardless of the obstacles we may face together..." _

Ginny fidgeted slightly in the otherwise unbroken line of blonde, her red hair flashing startlingly in the sunlight. Not that she needed any help standing out in the row. Harry certainly seemed to have noticed her. Then again, Hermione was fairly sure he would have noticed Ginny had she been in the very last row of the assembly, wearing a burlap sack and hiding under a blanket.

"_I give you my hand, my heart, and my love, from this day forward, and forever."_

Bill paused as he finished his vows, squeezing Fleur's hand in the gentle lull of silence that followed in a way that, Hermione imagined, only those in the very front row could see. Fleur took a deep and fluttering breath, casting only the smallest sidelong glance out of the corner of her eye at Hermione, who smiled reassuringly as possible in the direction of the bride. Honestly, of _all_ the people to ask for help writing _wedding_ vows, Fleur asked _her_—Hermione didn't consider herself as much of a romantic…

"I Fleur, do take you, Bill Weasley, to be my 'usband…"

She paused, long enough to make people wonder what she was waiting for, but not quite long enough for them to actually ask her.

"There are…many boys 'oo weell smile for a pretty girl, 'oo weell 'old the door open for 'er. But there are not many boys who care 'oo she eez, and 'oo weell love 'er because of 'oo she eez. Eet takes a very special man to love someone that way, to not care what they look like."

Hermione smiled. Ginny was looking at Fleur with something akin to pleasant surprise.

"I promeese to encourage and to comfort you een times of sorrow and struggle. I promeese to love you een good times and een bad, when life seems easy…and when it seems 'ard. I promeese to love you for the person you are, and for the wonderfeel person you weell become. These things I give to you today, and all the days of our life."

Ron leaned over. "Do you need a handkerchief?" He inquired in a low whisper.

"No," said Hermione evenly. "Do you?"

"No," replied Ron very quickly. Hermione looked away politely as he turned away and blew his nose spectacularly into his handkerchief. He sounded like a foghorn.

Fleur and Bill were reciting in unison.

"_I will never leave you, or return from following after you, for where you go I will go, and where you stay I will stay. Your family will be my family, and your battles will be my battles. And where you die, I will die and there I will be buried. I will love you with all of my heart, for all of my life, and nothing but death shall part us."_

The wizard presiding over the ceremony closed his book and spread his arms wide.

"I now pronounce you husband and wife." The couple smiled. "You may of course—kiss the bride."

And he did, with a relish that made some members of the audience clear their throats rather loudly.

000

"_Whoops…"_ thought Draco, and, for some reason he couldn't quite put his finger on, he was utterly at a loss as to what to do next.

He was still gripping his wand tightly in his hand. He brushed off his clothes, turned around, and walked out the door of Number 12 Grimmauld Place.

000

"You're not seriously going to eat that are you?" said Hermione in disbelief.

"This is my third piece," said Ron, sounding extremely proud of himself. "You have to eat wedding cake, this is a wedding, isn't it?"

"I think you're excused if you survived off of birthday cake for two days straight," said Hermione, wrinkling her nose, her stomach churning slightly at the thought of more cake.

"Birthday cake and wedding cake are two unicorns of an entirely different color, Hermione," said Ron knowledgably. "Completely different. Like chocolate and vanilla."

Hermione sighed.

They were in the field behind the Weasley's house. They actually hadn't budged an inch since the marriage ceremony itself, as the chairs had been magically rearranged into circles and large round tables had popped out of the ground within them, like big cloth covered mushrooms.

Everyone was still in their seats. Fleur's bridesmaids had decided to each give a speech, but by this time it had descended into a lot of high pitched gibbering in a language that couldn't possibly be English, and a great deal more heart felt and hysterical weeping. Most of the audiences' eyes had glazed over, though from emotion or boredom, she couldn't tell.

Hermione had lost interest in trying to make out what was being said. Her knowledge of French was spotty at best, and her concentration had been limited, for the most part, to learning how to say, "Where is the bathroom?" and "May I have some food?" and "Please don't arrest us, we are merely ignorant of your customs."

The bridesmaids finished. Charlie stood up and began to speak, ending less than a minute later by giving Bill a hearty clap on the back and raising his glass.

"But before we toast…" said Charlie, exhaling slowly. "And hopefully not to add too depressing of a note to a happy marriage…I would like to take a moment to remember a great man who we lost recently—"

"_Whom_ we lost recently—" said Hermione's brain immediately.

Charlie looked around almost apologetically. "…if there's…anyone here who would like to speak for him…"

All eyes immediately fell to Harry. He stood up, reluctant though firmly resigned, and picked up his glass. Hermione knew that everyone was expecting him to say something eloquent, meaningful—but Harry really wasn't that kind of person. His grace and his feeling went into his actions. And he was most certainly a man of action.

He raised his glass. "To the greatest wizard who ever lived," he said simply. "To Albus Dumbledore."

Everyone raised their glasses and murmured in response. Harry sat down, bringing his glass towards Ron and Hermione. "May we finish what he started," he concluded quietly.

Nodding wordlessly, Ron and Hermione both clinked their glasses softly against Harry's.

000

Draco walked.

He apparated more than occasionally, constantly checking to make sure he wasn't being followed, but for the most part—he walked. The countryside wasn't terribly thrilling, but at least he wasn't quite so bored any more. And at least he didn't have to listen to that bloody clock anymore. (Actually—no one had to listen to the clock anymore. It was a forlorn pile of bolts and splinters scattered about the living room at Number 12 Grimmauld Place.)

He passed the Weasley's house. It really was worse than he imagined. A filthy ramshackle hovel, held together by what must have been dozens of Balancing and Permanent Sticking Charms, and standing purely on what must have been fear of the ground. He kept walking, finding he really wasn't in the mood to verbally abuse Weasely. For one—there was no one around to _appreciate_ his scintillating wit.

He kept walking, past the house, further down the broad scar in the earth that passed for a dirt road. He moved off the path and started into the sparse woods behind the house. He was close now. Not close enough to hear the wedding, but close enough perhaps to see it as a flicker in the distance, and quite close enough to be lit on fire by an unfriendly protective ward. He stopped and listened.

"_Retego."_

A thin wall, like flimsy glass, absorbed the energy from Draco's wand. It crackled with blue waves for a moment, spreading like a stone dropped into a pond and wobbling like a giant bubble, before fading away once more.

It was a start. Certainly not the last trap, but not the most terrible thing he could have imagined.

"Well," said Draco, clapping his hands together. "I think I can work with this."

000

There was definitely something romantic about summer nights that made dancing seem like a perfectly natural thing to do. Maybe it was the fireflies (or were they pixies?) or the fact that it was warm enough that the darkness seemed to take on a soft and inviting quality, rather than a cold and mysterious one.

That was why everyone was dancing, and Hermione wasn't. She was sitting alone at an entirely empty table. And Ron had just wandered away, the daft bastard.

"Hermione," said a voice. She looked up. "Fred," she acknowledged as they sat down on either side of her. "George. Having fun?"

"Loads," said George cheerily. "We're _very_ drunk right now."

"Quite," agreed Fred. "Lovely bar. Dad went all out."

"You both sound very much the same," she admitted.

"Maybe we're drunk all the time then," said George in a low voice, as if he were imparting some very exciting information.

"Or maybe we just had years of practice," offered Fred, who did indeed seem to be gesturing more emphatically than usual, now that Hermione observed him with more scrutiny.

"Detention," said Hermione, with a mockingly stern voice. "And 50 points from Gryffindor. I'm sorry boys, but you've twisted my arm."

"And, are _you_ having fun, dear Hermione?"

"I suppose," said Hermione. "It's a lovely reception."

"Would you like me to get you a Fizzy Firecracker?" offered Fred.

"And what's in a Fizzy Firecracker?" she inquired, with a small smile.

"You almost certainly don't want to know," admitted George. "But it will probably brighten up your night considerably."

"Ah…" Her eyes drifted out to the dance floor.

"Would you like to dance?"

"I suppose…but don't you two have dates? …Other than each other?" she added, grinning.

"Ha ha," said George dryly. "It just so happens that our dates have elected to spend a few dances at the bar to familiarize themselves more thoroughly with the Fizzy Firecracker, since you so inquired."

"Milady?" Fred offered his hand, and after rolling her eyes, Hermione accepted it. They stepped out into what served as the dance floor, but was more accurately the center of the yard. Slow, pleasant music was emanating from an orb similar to the one Hermione had seen in the Malfoy's ballroom.

They danced in casual loops around the floor, Hermione giggling as Fred occasionally purposefully trod on someone's foot and quickly spun around, pointing innocently to Hermione.

"He's not out here," said Fred, apparently picking up on the frequency with which Hermione was scanning the room.

"Oh, I know," said Hermione absently. "He's run off somewhere. I bet he's hiding—" Fred grinned. "Who's not out there?" she said lightly. "It looks like everybody to me."

"My idiot younger brother," said Fred. "Don't worry. He'll come round."

"Hopefully not before I die of old age," Hermione grumbled under her breath.

"What was that?"

"Nothing." She smiled innocently.

"Oh, now that promises to be an interesting development…." said Fred, looking at something over Hermione's shoulder. Hermione spun around to see Ginny sitting at the corner of the head table, chatting with the blonde girl next to her. She also saw Harry a few feet away, approaching a speed that snails would probably consider to be painfully hesitant. Ginny turned and looked up at him.

After what appeared to be several moments of complete silence, they both went over to the dance floor and began to dance. Well—they weren't so much dancing as holding each other closely and swaying, but the intent was clearly there.

Hermione was not by nature, a nosy person. She was merely a curious person. And she was _curiously_ drifting closer and closer to Harry and Ginny, straining her ears to hear their conversation. Fred looked at her, and a moment later, pulled a long piece of flesh colored string out of the pocket of his dress robes.

"Need some assistance?" he inquired, grinning wickedly.

000

"Ginny…I—I just…" began Harry. Hermione could hear him perfectly, and she was trying not to stare nervously at the two peach lines snaked across the dance floor. Fred tugged on his, obviously anticipating something interesting—or at the very least, entertaining.

Ginny put a finger to his lips and smiled, a little wistfully. "Don't," she said, shaking her head. "I understand. I told you already."

"But I—"

Poor Harry. So desperate for some way to justify himself. Whatever he said before just wasn't enough. But, she knew, it would never be enough. Nothing would. Harry had made his decision, and he was stubborn enough to stick to it—despite the intense regret he seemed to feel. He didn't regret his choice, he simply regretted the way things were.

"I want you to be happy. I don't want you to wait around for me forever," he said.

_Liar…_though Hermione._ Still trying to be the hero._

Ginny didn't seem to be falling for it. "Do you love me?" she asked.

Harry looked surprised, but his answer was immediate and unabashed. "Yes."

She smiled. "I love you too. So—I am happy, Harry." He looked uncertain. "Go and find him and do what you have to. Avenge your family."

He brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. "You are my family."

"But…" she murmured, frowning slightly.

"My parents will always be a part of me, and I'll fight for them—but it's for you too. All of you. You and Ron and Hermione and your Mum and Dad and all of your brothers—I don't know where I would be without you. _You're_ my family. I'll always be with you."

Hermione was rather stunned. And then she felt guilty for being stunned. Of course Harry was more mature. She had seen it all along. Hermione and Fred covertly moved a little closer.

Ginny smiled again, mischievously. "Why, Harry…that sounded almost like a proposal…"

He immediately turned crimson. "Well—I mean—I—er—"

"_Would_ you marry me?" she asked, quirking her head.

"Yes." He grinned. "In a heartbeat."

"Harry…" She laid her head gently on his shoulder, squeezing her arms around him tightly. "It's going to be hard watching you leave again."

Harry looked at the ground. "I'm sorry…I shouldn't have come here—it's unfair of me to—"

"I'm glad you came, Harry," she said softly. She closed her eyes. "And besides—I'm not worried at all."

He quirked an eyebrow. "_Really_?" he said incredulously.

When she opened her eyes they were bright. "I know that if you have a single breath left in your body, you'll come find me." She smiled again, a sad, strong smile that Hermione had grown accustomed to seeing on her face when she was hurting deeply, and thought that no one had noticed. No one, perhaps, but him. "And if I have a single breath left in mine—I'll be here waiting for you. I'll wait here forever." Her fingers intertwined with his. "It's not long at all."

And she would. Wait. She would be there forever. Even if he didn't come back—she would wait for him. Forever. She was that kind of person. She loved him—fiercely, deeply—he was more than a friend. More than anything else in the world.

Hermione and Fred, at Hermione's casual insistence, moved away to give Harry and Ginny their privacy. (Or at least what was left of it.)

Ginny loved like she lived—courageously, openly, unabashedly. Hermione sometimes wondered (though she felt very foolish in doing so) if she would ever love anyone like that. She wondered if she _could_.

000

"_Resolutum!" _

The spell had worked—Draco could see a rectangular break in the energy of the force field. But it was shrinking rapidly, and his actually getting to the opening was somewhat hindered by the hexes, fire balls, and various sharp metallic objects hurtling through the air towards him with less than friendly intent.

He dove forward, purposely triggering a defensive hex in a tree opposite him. And then, without looking to see whether or not the fireballs had indeed melted the barrage of flying axes, he flung himself through the force field.

He paused in the relative stillness. The woods were dark, but he could see a few stray floating candles some ways ahead of him, and hear the strains of a far off song floating on the summer air.

He was panting. Not wildly, but he was breathing hard enough to know that he ought to be very pleased with himself for what he had just accomplished. He was, despite himself, somewhat impressed with the security. Three force wards of varying thicknesses, dozens of hexes, Burning Charms, Freezing Charms, axes and knives hurling through the air, flesh melting curses, and the brief appearance of a moat of something that Draco suspected was Dragon Spit—a highly corrosive substance that was banned in most apothecaries because of it's strong likeness to lava. (And it's consequent ability to melt the flesh off of one's bones.)

But this was it, he assured himself. Now, he hit the payload. Invitations, though he infinitely preferred them, were for ponces. He took a step forward.

"You missed one."

Draco was not easily surprised. At least—he had an inclination that he _was_ easily surprised—he just preferred to be the kind of person who wasn't. So, naturally, he jumped a foot in the air and spun around sideways, pointing his wand at the figure before him in what he hoped was a very threatening manner.

A very indignant, "I did _not_," was the first thing out of his mouth.

"I'm afraid you did," replied the stranger in an infuriatingly even voice. It was a voice that was infinitely assured of its own correctness, but one that corrected you in a maddeningly patient and non-judgmental way. Draco recognized the feelings of disgust, annoyance and desire to do something—anything—that would land him in detention that the voice stirred up in him almost immediately.

"Werewolf," Draco said disdainfully, staring coolly at Lupin.

"You know I've actually been going by a _human_ name for some time now," said the werewolf in a light tone, one that he seemed to use often to mask the fact that he wasn't joking. "I find it to be much less confusing."

"How nice for you…" said Draco stubbornly. "…_werewolf_."

The werewolf made a motion that probably would have included eye rolling, had he been twenty years younger. But he merely shrugged, his eyes not straying from Draco's gaze.

"Three more steps," he said, pointing to the branch of a tree just above Draco's head, "and you will trigger the step on that branch—"

"So?" blurted out Draco defiantly, hysterically determined to prove his knowledge to his one time teacher for reasons he couldn't quite comprehend. "I can disarm it. I disarmed all the rest of them! What is it? Searing Charm? Molten Steel Hex?"

"Not precisely—" The werewolf pursed his lips. "You see, it triggers an unbroken ring of steel spikes that will push you backwards into this area, which contains an unbroken line of netting."

"Ooh, a net," sneered Draco. "_Terrifying._"

"The net is a Portkey," the werewolf added.

"Ahh."

"It takes you back to the beginning of the traps," said the werewolf pleasantly, as if the beginning of the traps was an excellent vacation spot.

Draco said nothing, but he must have looked quite sullen.

"This one is my favorite," he elaborated. "Simple but effective. Very frustrating, in my opinion."

"This is your trap, isn't it?" asked Draco, not really wanting to know the answer.

"Yes, it is," admitted the werewolf. "We all pitched in. Especially the Aurors. And Charlie. Did you like the Dragon Spit? That was Charlie's idea."

"Loved it," said Draco flatly. "He's a genius." There was a brief silence. "I would have figured that out," he snapped.

"I'm sure you would have." The werewolf's smile seemed to reveal the unsaid—he most certainly would have figured it out…on the second time around.

"Why are you telling me this?" demanded Draco, quite torn between being grateful and extremely pissed.

"I thought you might like to know," he replied simply. There was another silence.

"What are you doing here, Draco?" he asked finally. Another unsaid question. Draco was startled to hear it plucked so suddenly from its previous position, hanging heavily on the warm air.

"I want to talk to Potter," said Draco boldly.

"If it is necessary, you certainly may," said the werewolf. "I won't stop you. However…I hope you haven't failed to reflect upon the considerable commotion your presence will wreak upon this wedding." Draco mulled over this for a moment, as the werewolf continued. "If you'd like, I would be perfectly willing to relay any message to him with perfect confidentiality."

Draco twirled his wand in his hands. In school, he had performed this action as an aspect of a masterful intimidation scheme, but he had the unpleasant feeling that the werewolf wouldn't be any less intimidated if he were slowly twirling a bunch of lollypops.

"Tell him—I broke the clock," said Draco finally.

"Is that some sort of code?" he asked, looking perplexed.

"Not really," said Draco, shrugging. "I broke it. Well—reduced it so cinders is more like it. Bloody annoying thing. How can any sane person stand to listen "A Cauldron Full of Hot, Strong Love" that many times a day?" He found himself railing against the recently departed clock, despite the obvious bemusement of his audience.

"An actual clock?" inquired the werewolf, a tiny smile playing upon his lips.

"Yes," affirmed Draco.

"No hidden messages or secret codes or dire warnings—just a clock?"

"_Yes_," said Draco more sharply, now growing rather annoyed—though with himself or with the werewolf, he couldn't tell.

"And what were you planning to do, after you shared this sobering news with Harry?" inquired the werewolf, very politely.

"Well," Draco shifted uncomfortably. "I really hadn't thought that far into it." He hadn't, really. Going to Potter just seemed like the natural thing to do.

"Why is that?" The werewolf looked more like a Professor than ever, looking perfectly calm and just a bit to pleased with himself.

Draco paused, and considered. "I suppose it was…the first thing that I thought of…" He didn't have anyone to order around, he didn't have any tasks to complete, he was bored and confused and uncomfortable and the first solution that popped into his head was to go to Potter, and ask him what to do.

Wait a minute.

WHAT? HE WAS TAKING ORDERS FROM POTTER? _INSTINCTUALLY_? HAD HE GONE _COMPLETELY_ MAD? WHAT BROUGHT _THAT_ ON?

"If you want to," said the werewolf, "go ahead inside. Perhaps what you're looking for is in there after all."

What was inside? ...More cake? Crappy music? The _Weasleys_? _EWW._ Disgusting. But there was more than that, and Draco could see it on that stupid, knowing, half a grin on the werewolf's stupid scarred face.

Was he looking for acceptance from _them_? And even if he did want it, it's not like he's going to go in there begging for it. How repulsive. He certainly didn't need…those people.

He turned around to leave.

"Where are you going?"

"Did you slip me some Vertiserum at any point in the last few hours?" asked Draco.

"No," replied the werewolf.

"Then I'm not answering any more of your stupid questions, it's none of your goddamn business," said Draco sourly. The werewolf raised an eyebrow. "I have no idea," admitted Draco grudgingly.

"It's hard," said the werewolf slowly, as if afraid that this information would not be accepted as well as the rest had. "People don't realize the repercussions of losing the people who are most important to us…where do you go when you feel like you have nothing left?"

"A pub?" offered Draco, sneering.

"There was a time in my life when I thought I had nothing left. No friends, no cause to die for, nothing. Certainly there were no people left who saw me as anything but a monster. So I left. I wandered around for a long time, traveling, across the world. For the longest time I didn't know if I was trying to prove my denouncers wrong or right…"

"_I_ would have gone to the pub." Draco winced as this statement came out a little more deliberately defensive than he intended.

The werewolf ignored him. "If you want to prove something, then prove it to yourself, Mr. Malfoy. No one can tell you how to do that, especially not Harry. Stop taking orders, and do what _you_ think is right."

"I don't need Potter's help for anything," hissed Draco. "And I certainly don't take his _orders_."

"Oh no?" asked the werewolf, sounding a little more than skeptical, with that infuriatingly knowing smile still perched upon his lips. _"Prove it."_ He disappeared into the woods before Draco could formulate a retort.

Draco stood alone in the silent dark for a few moments, then turned and walked away for the wedding.

And he kept walking, for a very long time.

000

**AN: **OMG, I'm not dead? Can you believe it? I'd give some excuses for the lateness…but you know how it is…Hope you enjoyed the chapter…

(PS: Thanks to the people who corrected the French. I will be the first to admit that I just used an online translator—but now the language is wonderfully authentic. Awesome!)


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